


Demon in Heaven, Angel in Hell

by Hexqueen517



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Armageddon, Footnotes, Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Post-Canon, SO MANY FOOTNOTES, completed work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/pseuds/Hexqueen517
Summary: When the world ends, Aziraphale will be called back to Heaven and Crowley will be banished back to Hell, separated for eternity - unless they’re willing to listen to Beelzebub and Gabriel’s plan. Which is Beelzebub’s plan, of course, but they need Gabriel to act as a shield against plant misters filled with holy water. But not everyone in Heaven and Hell is on board with Beelzebub and Gabriel’s leadership. When everyone at the top of the Ineffable Bureaucracy has their own ambitions, the chances of averting apocalypse yet again may seem random. You never know who will come out on top when the dice begin to roll …
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 71





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completed work of 16 chapters, with POV rotating between Gabriel, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, and Crowley. My plan is to post a chapter every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I chose not to format footnotes as hyperlinks as that never seems to work with my Kindle, and I prefer to read footnotes in the body of the text. I'm open to suggestions on anything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell realize that Aziraphale and Crowley are terrible employees - and blame their bosses. It’s hardly fair on an archangel with honest intentions.

It starts, as it ends, with an angel and a demon.

“Do you have any idea,” Beelzebub said, “how hard it iz to get 10 million demonz to stand down?”

“Well,” Gabriel said, “at least we know who to blame.”

It was the stupid smiles that brought home just how colossally Gabriel had failed. Watching his most disappointing mentee and his pet demon smile at them, an Archangel and a Prince of Hell, as if they were proud of their actions. Maybe the demon was. Demons were big on misplaced pride. But Aziraphale! He was supposed to be an angel, and Gabriel was his supervisor, and there was no way that Aziraphale’s treachery wasn’t going to reflect badly on him.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried with Aziraphale. He had always been an understanding supervisor, he thought, with an open door policy.**

**For angels, not mortals. Gabriel was content to let Saint Peter set the standards for humans getting through the door.

He'd always listened to what Aziraphale had to say, even as it grew increasingly harder to understand. Aziraphale had changed over the centuries on Earth, and that was a huge warning sign, an enormous red flag – one that Gabriel had purposely overlooked. Aziraphale had never been a zealous angel, but he'd been solidly reliable, and more to the point, he was the only angel who wanted to stay on Earth. Leaving Heaven was too much of a sacrifice to force on anyone unwilling except as punishment – Beelzebub could attest to that, Gabriel was sure.

Then Michael had shown Gabriel the surveillance pictures, some of which dated back centuries. Gabriel was a little fuzzy on how the technology worked. He was a big-picture archangel. And the big picture was that Aziraphale had been consorting with the serpent he'd led Gabriel to believe was his adversary.

In essence, Aziraphale had lied. Somehow, Aziraphale was able to lie to Heaven. And Gabriel, his supervisor, had failed to see it in time. And this – this! – was the result. A failed apocalypse. The ruin of the Great Plan. If Gabriel had blood, it would have boiled. He was finding it hard to think straight. And Aziraphale and the serpent demon were babbling about an ineffable plan and how it wasn’t the Great Plan, and Beelzebub was actually hesitating. Gabriel expected Beelzebub to strike the serpent down on the spot. Instead, the Lord of the Flies hesitated and then walked away from the traitors.

Beelzebub wasn’t going to let this pass. Were they? They wouldn’t. Gabriel strode to the Prince’s side.

“This is not going to look good for us at all,” Gabriel said. “I mean, no offense, but that demon who just helped the Antichrist defy Satan? You’re his supervisor.”

Beelzebub whirled on him, flies sailing straight up to buzz under Gabriel’s nose. “Did you just say ‘no offense’ to me?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Gabriel said. “Do you want me to go back and smite Crawly or whatever he calls himself?”

Beelzebub growled as the flies settled back in their hair. “Too quick and not permanent enough. Crowley doesn’t deserve that much kindnezz.”

“We have to do something.” Gabriel tried, and failed, to curb the whine in his voice. “I can’t go back to Heaven empty handed with nothing to do but blab about some ineffable plan.”

“And why do I alwayz have to come up with the ideaz?”

Gabriel smiled. “Because you’re the devious one. I’m the handsome and good-hearted one.”

“Idiot.” Beelzebub was too preoccupied glaring at Aziraphale and his pet snake to put much malice into it. Hopefully, they’d think of something quickly.**

** Expecting Beelzebub to fix the situation should have been another huge red flag, but Gabriel had so much trouble seeing those, he could be classified as functionally colorblind.

Truthfully, and Gabriel always strove to be truthful, spending too much time in Beelzebub’s company made him jumpy, and it wasn’t because of the constant buzzing of the flies. It always reminded Gabriel that angels and demons weren’t meant to consort. That it was wrong. Gabriel suspected it had something to do with the time before the Fall. Both angels and demons had their memories of the time before the Fall wiped. The demons couldn’t remember what their names were, or what they had once created. And the angels couldn’t remember whom among the Fallen they had once loved. Gabriel, however, was an Archangel with a capital A, with a strong will. He knew more than most. Not quite enough to remember who Beelzebub had once been, but someone that high up the food chain must’ve gotten the personal boot from Heaven. Gabriel might not have been the one to push Beelzebub into the Lake of Fire, but he suspected he’d played a part in the nosedive. 

Gabriel had been forced to spend time with Beelzebub regardless, because Beelzebub was his infernal counterpart, also tasked with managing personnel. They’d met up many times concerning Aziraphale and Crowley. Every time some human who had the slightest skill at putting words to paper or making noises from a musical instrument died, Aziraphale filed long applications requesting that the human be admitted to Heaven, and Crowley filed equally obnoxious applications insisting that the human belonged in Hell. Gabriel and Beelzebub had to meet every so often just to sort the paperwork.**

**Aziraphale and Crowley would not have been surprised to learn that the only time their applications were actually read was when Beelzebub quoted parts of Aziraphale’s entreaties out loud to Gabriel in his best “pansy angel with a stick up his arse” voice.

“Heaven is going to be expecting something,” Gabriel said, hoping to rush Beelzebub’s demonic thought process along. The Prince was well known both Upstairs and Downstairs for their devious plots.

“Heaven?” The flies circled in clumsy ellipses, bumping each other. “Hastur has been throwing fitz over Crowley for demon slaying. Once thiz gets out, the Lords of Hell will shred my wings and use the sinewz to hang me by my tongue.” They frowned even more deeply. “My tongue if I’m lucky.”

Gabriel threw up his arms. “Then I’d recommend keeping sharp objects away from Dagon and Hastur while you tell them about the ineffable plan.”

“I can handle my office politicz,” Beelzebub said, although the flies were still drooping.** 

**Gabriel didn’t realize how lucky he was that Beelzebub was distracted. The last being who’d inferred that Beelzebub couldn’t handle their subordinates had his spleen used to paint Beelzebub’s office. The demon didn’t even have a spleen. Beelzebub had manifested it in a very painful manner before tearing it out for decorating purposes.

“Can you handle your office?” Beelzebub said. “Could you talk Michael into punishing the traitorz?”

“Michael was never big on punishing angels,” Gabriel said. “Why? You have an idea, don’t you?”

“Yesss.” Beelzebub’s grin was perfectly revolting. “But we’ll have to cooperate to punish them properly. Do you think Michael would be willing to punish Crowley?”

Gabriel nodded eagerly. “Michael’s very big on smiting.”

“All of you azzholes are big on smiting.”

“I don’t see how that was called for.” Gabriel adjusted his scarf, although not to hide his expression. It just needed adjusting. “I was only talking about Crowley. It’s not as if I go out looking for demons to smite. Stay away from demons, that’s my—”

“Oh, do you ever stop talking?” Beelzebub’s flies had perked up and were buzzing in contentment. This must be one hell of a plan.

“What’s the play?” Gabriel asked.

“I’m going to give the filthy traitor Crowley a bath in a tub full of holy water,” Beelzebub said.

“Holy water? Where are you going to get—oh.” Gabriel shook his head. “No can do, Beelz. We don’t give out holy water to demons.”

“You haven’t heard about Ligur yet? You will. Hastur hasn’t shut up about it. The traitor Crowley killed Ligur.” Beelzebub’s sneer grew nastier, which Gabriel hadn’t thought possible. “With holy water. Where do you suppose he got it?”

The question was a punch to the gut. Even a very toned gut like Gabriel’s recoiled. “You mean … you’re saying … Aziraphale gave his demon holy water?”

Gabriel tried to be truthful, even with himself. He would be the second to admit that he wasn’t the fastest thinker among the heavenly host.**

**Beelzebub would be the first to admit it. They were always just a bit quicker.

But Gabriel had other qualities that made him a valuable archangel. He had zeal. He had certainty, an unshakeable faith in the righteousness of Heaven. And he had a finely honed sense of fairness.

Was it fair that Aziraphale consorted with demons when the Fall had forbidden it? Was it just that they had all been cut off from their formerly beloved brothers and sisters without even their memories to console them while Aziraphale took a demon to the theater? And gave him holy water!

Anger made Gabriel’s incorporation shudder. No, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. And it was definitely, without a doubt unfair that Gabriel would have to report to the Metatron and pay the price for the failure of the apocalypse because Aziraphale, the fussy, dumpy little oddball,** had joined forces with a serpent demon to thwart the will of Heaven.

**Even in the face of the failed apocalypse, this was as close as Gabriel could come to cursing another angel’s name. It was extremely unsatisfying.

“I can arrange to get you holy water,” Gabriel said. He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “And in exchange?”

“Hellfire for the traitor angel.” 

Beelzebub looked over the airfield. Gabriel followed his gaze for a last look at the traitors. Were they smiling at each other? They were. Oh, they were.

“This,” Gabriel said, “could be very satisfying.”

Beelzebub grinned. “Thiz could be very fun.”

It was neither.

Gabriel sprinted to his office and collapsed in his chair. He needed a moment to collect himself, but Uriel and Sandalphon were on his heels. 

Aziraphale had spit hellfire at him! There was no doubt in his mind that Beelzebub had supplied the real deal. Gabriel had sensed the pulsing, burning malice of the hellfire as it passed within a millimeter of his nose.

Judging the terrified expressions worn by Uriel and Sandalphon, they had no doubts about the hellfire’s authenticity either.

“How is he immune to hellfire?” Uriel demanded.

“I don’t know.” 

“How has he not Fallen yet?” Sandalphon asked.

“I don’t know.” Gabriel took his phone out of his jacket pocket. Beelzebub hadn’t tried to call. Yet. What was going on down in Hell?

Uriel crossed her arms over her chest. “This was your idea, Gabriel. What are you doing with that phone? Are you waiting for Michael to call?”

Gabriel was not a good liar. “It would certainly be nice to hear from Michael,” he said, which was partially true.**

**As in, it would certainly be nice to hear from Michael that Crowley had been dissolved into a puddle of goo.

Michael had gone down to Hell with the holy water and the surveillance pictures of Aziraphale and Crowley to show to Beelzebub. The pictures of them having cozy little conversations in the park in springtime. Belatedly, Gabriel realized that Crowley wasn’t in any danger from the holy water. If Crowley had been in actual danger, the abortive execution of Aziraphale would’ve gone very differently. For one thing, the hellfire in Gabriel’s face wouldn’t have missed.

“I think we’d all feel better,” Gabriel said slowly, “if we were very sure that Aziraphale has left the building.”

“I know I’d feel better,” Uriel said. “Come, Sandalphon.”

Gabriel was relieved to hear them go. Argh, why didn’t Beelzebub call already? He buried his face in his arms and rocked in his office chair, trying to calm himself by soaking up the silence. It seemed like half an eternity before the phone buzzed.

“Gabriel.” Beelzebub’s voice was barely a whisper through the crackling connection. “We are very fucked.”

“The holy water didn’t work,” Gabriel said. “Did it?”

“Neither did the hellfire, I take it.” Beelzebub sighed, a long, scratchy thing. “We did it backwardz. If Aziraphale had been in danger, Crowley would have been blubbering.”

“Blubbering? Blubbering? Aziraphale spit hellfire at my head!”

“Crowley flicked a handful of holy water at me.” Gabriel had never heard the Prince of Hell sound fearful before. The wavering, whispery voice filled him with dread.

“What … what took you so long to call?”

“The trial ran long.”

“You had a trial?”

“We’re demonz, not monsterz.”

The dread pooled in the center of Gabriel’s corporation twisted and fluttered. “Where’s Michael?”

“She’z in the corner whispering with Dagon.”

That was … not ideal. 

“Oh, Gabriel, what are we going to do?”

“Why are you asking me?” Gabriel sprung up and began pacing his office. “This was your idea. You’re supposed to be so brilliant. I’ll probably get demoted for this. My reputation is in ruins.”

“Your reputation? Are you shitting me?” Beelzebub sounded angry now. That was an improvement. “Do you think I’ll be worried about my reputation when I’m explaining thiz to Satan?”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Gabriel knew he was talking too loudly but he couldn’t stop. “Just name it, Beelz. Name one thing I can do to save your corrupted demon skin.”

He could hear the flies buzzing in indignation through Hell’s crappy cellular reception. “I. Don’t. Know.”**

**Hell’s connection was so bad that it took celestial beings of considerable strength imposing their will on it to make it functional, making every phone conversation Gabriel had with Beelzebub exhausting. When he’d complained about it, Beelzebub had given him the phone number of Hell’s customer service department, but Gabriel hadn't been manifested from the aether yesterday.

Gabriel had no idea why he’d offered to do anything. It wasn’t like he could save Beelzebub from Satan. That was what happened to demons. They should’ve known what they were getting into when they rebelled against Heaven.

“Well, you better think of something, sunshine,” he growled into the phone, “because I have to answer to the Metatron, you have to answer to Satan, and the traitors are walking around free.”

Beelzebub cut the connection. This didn’t surprise Gabriel. He’d never had a phone conversation with Beelzebub that hadn’t ended with the demon hanging up on him. It did surprise him that he’d called them “sunshine,” though. It buoyed him up a bit – it was good to know he still had his somewhat reckless courage.

Anyway, if any demon could figure out how to weasel their way out of Satan’s bad graces, Beelz was the one. One day, when Beelzebub had figured out how to stop the damned legions of Hell from clawing them into flystrips, when they and Gabriel were once again trusted to conduct their own business, Gabriel would be paying for that “sunshine.” Today, however, was not that day.

Still, the thought was enough to prompt Gabriel to check his hair in a mirror, to straighten his scarf and his spine, and to fix his expression into a bland smile. He was almost presentable by the time Michael slipped into his office.

“Michael!” He spread his arms in welcome. “How was the trip back up? It didn’t sound like you had the most pleasant—”

“What if they’re right?” Michael asked abruptly. Her hair was coming unpinned and her blouse was untucked, but her voice was steady.

Gabriel lost his mental footing. Again. “What if who’s right?”

“Aziraphale and Crowley. About the ineffable plan.” Before Gabriel could recover from that shock, Michael leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. “What if they were supposed to stop the apocalypse? If that was Her will?”

“That is most definitely not Her will.” Gray feathered at the edges of his vision, threatening to overtake him. His ears rang. “The apocalypse has been delayed, that’s all. The world can’t last forever.”

“The Antichrist has denied Satan,” Michael said, with a sense of awe in her voice that made it hard for Gabriel to remain standing. He was not going to sit down in Michael’s presence, not when she was blabbering blasphemy.

“This is a temporary setback,” he ground out from what felt like a locked jaw.

“Then why hasn’t Aziraphale Fallen?” She almost sounded reasonable. Did she think she was being logical? What had she and Dagon discussed downstairs? Obviously, much too much.

Gabriel forced a smile. “You’re welcome to discuss personnel matters with the Metatron.”

If he was hoping that would intimidate her, he was badly disappointed. “Thank you, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

She went to leave but stopped at his office door. “Gabriel? I’m not the only one wondering if they were guided by the ineffable plan.”

Then, having delivered that little bombshell, she left.

Damn, damn, damn. Gabriel took out his phone and stared at the blank screen. “This is your fault,” he whispered. 

There was only one way out of this. Either he or Beelzebub was going to have to restart the apocalypse. Immediately. Before the combined forces of Heaven and Hell decided to give peace a chance by dumping their war leaders.


	2. It's Not Over Until the Paperwork's Finished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world’s bitchiest angel celebrates the Antipocalypse with champagne, gets really ticked off about Crowley’s employee contracts, and figures out how to put in his resignation without notice.

Once he knew that Crowley was safe, they dined at the Ritz. For once, Aziraphale couldn’t taste the food. He could barely chew because he couldn’t stop smiling.

He and Crowley toasted each other with champagne for possibly the seventh or eighth time. Waiters were starting to stare.**

**The last time this much money was spent on champagne at the Ritz, Jeremy Clarkson was being thrown out. A great day, the wait staff agreed. They weren’t sure why today also seemed like a great day, but somehow, it did.

“To the world,” Aziraphale said with an absolutely foolish grin stretching his face.

“To the world,” Crowley echoed yet again, also wearing a ridiculous, face-cracking grin. They just couldn’t stop. “Clink clink.”

“Clink clink,” Aziraphale agreed, and choked a little on his champagne because it made him giggle.

“You’ve been to Hell and back today,” Crowley said, “and it’s the champagne that’s going to do you in.”

“Well, it’s not the best vintage,” Aziraphale said, which got them laughing again. It was starting to hurt his stomach muscles, such as they were. Perhaps they ought to retire to the bookshop and— Oh, the bookshop.

Crowley must have spotted the change in his expression. “I told you, everything is exactly as you left it. Well, except for the burning candles, right? They’re not there. So I suppose not exactly.”

“I know, but—”

Crowley signaled for the bill. “I’ll sober up enough to take the Bentley. Just, you know.” He straightened his spine, pretending to be Aziraphale again. “Get a wiggle on.”

Aziraphale was thoughtful on the ride to SoHo. Crowley takes such good care of me, he thought. It wasn’t as if he’d never noticed that before. But before the world almost ended, it had been a wistful type of thought, one that made him pull out a Jane Austen novel and have a good cry. Now it was a much more insistent thought. 

He had not been as good a friend to Crowley as Crowley had been to him. And suddenly, Aziraphale wasn’t smiling anymore, his giddiness entirely evaporated.

If Crowley noticed, he didn’t say so. Instead, he pulled up in front of the bookshop.**

**Crowley had heard people complain about finding parking in SoHo but never quite understood. Why didn’t they drive better cars? That would take care of the problem. Humans brought so much of their troubles on themselves.

“Here you are, everything all in one piece.”

Aziraphale found himself afraid to leave the Bentley. It felt as if, as soon as Crowley left his sight, Hell would drag him away. “You’ll come in, won’t you? Show me where Adam changed things.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose over his dark glasses. “Oh. Oh, yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale almost told him that he didn’t have to come in, he shouldn’t feel obligated, but fortunately his mouth was smarter than his brain and he managed not to say it.

Of course, he knew at once what Adam had added to the bookshop, but he let Crowley walk him through it. Purely to save face. And he knew that Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew exactly what had changed, but he still pointed everything out dutifully. Because he was nice. Nicer than Aziraphale, in any case.

And the bookshop didn’t feel the same. It still smelled of bound, pressed paper, one of the best smells in the world, but he would always know that it had been destroyed and miracled back into existence.

As if he could sense Aziraphale’s mood spiraling downward, Crowley stopped smiling and offered gently but somewhat insistently to see if Adam had restored the wine cellar. Crowley’s loose-hipped swagger to the cellar door was as adorable as ever, but Aziraphale was so practiced at pushing away that thought, his brain barely registered it before it went back to worrying.**

**Sometime during the late Middle Ages, Aziraphale had finally concluded that, although demons were supposed to be able to sense lust, Crowley could not, or else he would have discorporated Aziraphale at least a dozen times over. Actually, over the years, Crowley’s ability to sense lust had stopped him from discorporating Aziraphale at least a dozen times.

He couldn’t just leave things as they were. He had a moral obligation to admit that he hadn’t been honest with Crowley at the bandstand. He didn’t have to get maudlin about it. He didn’t have to say anything drastic about how the conversation had just about broken him.**

**Unlike some other angels we could name, Aziraphale was honest enough with himself to know that he wasn’t honest with himself.

Just a small start, a baby step. One apology, which he was willing to beg Crowley to accept, no matter how many years it took.

Crowley returned with two wine glasses and a bottle of 1960 Chateau Margaux that hopefully had not been turned into grape juice by Adam. He poured for Aziraphale, handing him the glass with a warm smile that brought the angel back to reality. Here he was obsessing on how Crowley did too much for him, and yet all he had to do was sit in his desk chair and hold out his hand, and lo, a glass of excellent wine appeared. This was where overthinking had brought him.

“Angel, are you going to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, or are you going to sulk all evening?” Crowley prodded.

“I’m not sulking, I’m … I’m formulating an important thought.”

“Nope, you’re sulking,” Crowley said. “Trust me, I know the difference.”

“Trust you,” Aziraphale said slowly.

Crowley froze. Of course, Aziraphale trusted him, and it was a huge relief to be able to admit it. They were on their own side now. All he had to do was apologize. So … onward to where angels fear to tread. Crowley’s expression was hidden behind his dark glasses, but what of it? Did Aziraphale deserve to know how Crowley would respond to his apology? 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said (yes, he was doing this, he was not backing out of it), “um … well, I just wanted to say … I don’t think I was entirely honest with you when I told you that I didn’t like you.”

Crowley didn’t say anything. He hadn’t even sat down.

“And … and when I told you that we weren’t on the same side. We are, of course. Of course.” Crowley might have been looking at him, but maybe not. “So … well … I apologize. I’m sorry.”

Crowley waved it away with one arm before collapsing bonelessly on the couch. “Forget it, angel.”

Seriously, did that mean his apology was accepted or not? 

“I’m not going to forget it,” Aziraphale said. He could hear his voice raise, but he was a touch justified. And overtired. And a bit inebriated. “I apologized because it’s important.”

Crowley put his feet up on the couch** and leaned against the armrest. 

**As if that hadn’t been yet another losing battle.

“Alright, if it makes you happy,” Crowley said. “I apologize for saying I was going to run off and never think about you again.”

“That’s not the same. We both knew you were lying.”

“We both knew you were lying when you said you didn’t like me.”

“That’s not the same,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake.” Crowley gulped down his wine. “I’ve had a long day or two, you know. Not really up for an argument about this.”

“I’m not arguing,” Aziraphale argued.

Crowley stood. “And I’m not arguing about whether we’re arguing either.” 

Why was he standing? Was he going to leave? Aziraphale began to have trouble inhaling, as if he had forgotten how he’d worked out to do it. He’d also had a long couple of days what with being discorporated and getting to Tadfield and the whole Antipocalyse and then standing trial in Hell. Otherwise, he never would have said what he said next because he’d promised himself long ago that he would never say it. “Crowley, will you take off those damn glasses while I’m talking to you?”

It didn’t take an ethereal genius to know this had been over the line. As time had gone on, Crowley had become more and more dependent on his glasses. Modern indoor spaces were so much brighter than they used to be pre-electricity. But even outside at night, Crowley rarely took his glasses off anymore, and Aziraphale had been careful to hide his own feelings on the matter, as they were not material. Crowley felt more comfortable wearing dark glasses, and it was rude and disrespectful to disdain what he needed. Anxiety stabbed under Aziraphale’s ribcage. He had been very disrespectful and very wrong. 

Crowley gaped open-mouthed for a moment, made his “ngk” noise, and slammed his wine glass on the desk. Oh, God, he really was going to leave.

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale blurted out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I’m so sorry, dear, please don’t leave.”

He buried his face in his hands, knowing he wouldn’t be able to watch Crowley walk out, not today, on the first day of the rest of their lives.**

** Aziraphale had been trying hard not to think of it as “the first day of the rest of their lives” because it was so cliché, probably too trite for even _The Sound of Music_. But he had yet to think of a better way to phrase it.

“Um,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale uncovered his eyes. Crowley was still there.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale was shaking. “Because I like to know what you’re feeling.” He laced his fingers together to still them. “The eyes are the window to the soul.”

“Pfffft,” Crowley said, “demons don’t have souls.”

“What? No, that’s wrong. You have a beautiful soul, my dear.”

Crowley made the strangled noise he customarily used whenever Aziraphale tried to praise him. “I do not. I don’t have a soul, you don’t have a soul. That’s a mortal thing, souls. ‘S for the humans.”

“We both have souls.” Aziraphale knew he had a soul – he’d been tormented with a 6000-year struggle to save it from eternal damnation. “Why do you think you don’t?”

Crowley sat on the couch, his arms moving gracefully again, swishing the wine in his glass. “I know I don’t. It’s in my employment contract. Signed by Beelzebub all proper.”

“Beelzebub made you sign a contract saying you have no soul?” Anger quickened Aziraphale’s language. It had been an emotional day. 

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley said. “Part of bureaucratic modernization. About 100 years ago, Beelzebub made us all negotiate employment contracts.”

Demons and their contracts. But still … “You all got to negotiate employment contracts?”

Crowley grinned. “Dagon said I’d negotiated the most favorable employment contract she’d ever seen.”**

**This was true. Crowley had negotiated from the starting offer of being forced to sign the contract while suspended upside down in a vat of centipedes all the way down to being forced to sign the contract while sitting in a vat of the chewy tapioca balls found in bubble tea. Hastur had been green with envy. Well, probably envy.

“You can’t sign away your immortal soul, Crowley.”

“What d’you mean? I’ve drawn up thousands of contracts for humans to sign away their souls. You did a few of them for me.”**

**Crowley let Aziraphale get the signatures for the immortal souls of people who banned books, so the contracts were redundant. He’d always hated unnecessary paperwork.

“Obviously you can commit your immortal soul to Hell,” Aziraphale said. “Or Heaven, as it were. But you can’t sign a piece of paper that says you don’t have a soul at all.” He began pacing the back room of the shop. “Why would Beelzebub make you sign that?”

Crowley shrugged and refilled his glass in one fluid motion.**

**It was very smooth, but Crowley’s lust radar didn’t even ping, Aziraphale was that livid.

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to your flat and looking over that contract,” Aziraphale said. “No, I’m going to do one better. Tomorrow, we’re going to destroy that contract.”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley said. “Burn it to cinders.”

Aziraphale thought this was one of his better ideas. He was absolutely insulted that Beelzebub would try to trick Crowley out of his immortal soul. Completely offended. That contract had to go. And now he had something to do with Crowley tomorrow.

“What about your contracts?” Crowley asked. “We going to burn those, too?”

“Well, angels don’t have that infernal contract fetish,” Aziraphale said. “Usually, after I received a missive, I disposed of it.”

Crowley’s eyebrows quirked up in amusement. “You destroyed them after you read them?”

“Oh. Yes. After reading them.” He cleared his throat. “Erring on the side of safety. I wouldn’t want a mortal to discover them, after all.”

“Then what’s with the lockbox behind the shelf of twelfth century philosophers?”

Damn. Of course, Crowley had noticed his lockbox of important papers and mementoes. Now he’d have to move it. “There’s nothing from Upstairs in there.”**

**Unsurprisingly, among other things, Aziraphale kept every letter Crowley had ever written him in the lockbox. Most of those letters predated the invention of the telephone and had been written drunk, with a prevailing theme of “Angel, angel, I think I saw your flaming sword, you have to believe me, I swear.”

Crowley stared at the philosophy section and seemed on the verge of actually expending some energy to investigate. Aziraphale said quickly, “I did save a small batch of missives from Gabriel we can destroy. They’re not there. They’re in my desk.”

He reclaimed his desk chair and opened his file drawer. This folder was all the way in the back of the drawer, pushed out of sight and, whenever possible, out of mind. He handed Crowley the folder. “Here. We can incinerate these, too.”

Actually, that was another wonderful idea. Heaven had tried to fire him, literally, but he could resign. He could take some agency and show Crowley – show Gabriel and everybody – that breaking ties with Heaven had been his own choice and not one forced upon him.

Crowley opened the folder. His fingers flicked through the top papers, but as he read, his movements slowed. Finally, he put the folder down on the couch and took off his glasses.

“These are all orders to smite me,” he said.

“Yes, I know that, dear.” Crowley feeling comfortable enough to take off his glasses always filled him with a glowing feeling, like drinking a hot toddy on a cold evening. His eyes were beautiful – no, there was no point in thinking – wait, why couldn’t he think that now?

He could. He very much could.

“You never smited … smote … whatever, you didn’t do it.” Crowley leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them. “You ignored direct orders from Heaven.”

“Oh, no, I never did that. They were only orders from Gabriel.”**

**To Crowley’s credit, he did not roll his eyes at this very Aziraphale-like interpretation.

Aziraphale leaned forward a bit, too. “Admittedly, the first time Gabriel told me to go after you, I panicked a bit. I even—"

“Blech, you tried to smite me?” Crowley scrunched up his nose. It was fetching, really, quite adorable. “I feel like I would have remembered that.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “I thought about it, but in the end, I couldn’t do it. So, I waited for my punishment. That was back in … oh, let’s see … it was during the Trojan War, I believe.”

“I was in the Far East. I always wondered why you didn’t follow me there.”

“It wasn’t safe. I was out on the proverbial limb as it were. I expected to be recalled at any moment for not smiting you. But nothing happened.” Aziraphale drained his wine glass, and the berry notes brought back memories of ancient Greece, of worrying and waiting and drinking altogether too much, without a soul to confide in. “The next time I went Upstairs to file a report, I chatted with Uriel and Sandalphon, and they never even mentioned it. I thought Gabriel must have forgotten all about it.”

“That sanctimonious prick wouldn’t forget a smiting.” 

“Yes, well. About a century or two later, Gabriel sent me another order to smite you. This time – oh, it was right after Golgotha, smiting you would have been absolutely impossible.”

“Yes.” Crowley swirled his glass, staring at the eddies. “We both needed quite a bit of recovery time after that twist in the ineffable plan.”

“It was heartbreaking,” Aziraphale said. “I felt like I deserved Gabriel’s punishment.”

Crowley’s golden eyes lit up with inner warmth and just a touch of wrath. “Never, angel.”

Aziraphale found himself nudging his chair closer to the couch. “Perhaps not. That’s neither here nor there. The point is that I was never punished, and Gabriel never brought it up. And I certainly never brought it up to him. After that, I realized it had never been a Heaven-approved mission.”

“Wonderful. Eliminating me wasss just Gabriel’s little ssside project.”

Crowley hardly ever hissed. He must’ve been exhausted. Aziraphale also could barely stay upright. He gestured to the folder, trying to wrap up his story. “He sent me a missive to smite you every century or so. I kept a few of them to remind me that there were never any consequences to ignoring them. And to remind me that this, well, side project didn’t have Her blessing.” He clapped his hands. “Should we burn them now?”

“Not here,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale nodded. “We’ll burn them at your flat tomorrow.”

With their plans for the next day settled, there was really no reason for Crowley to stay, and he obviously needed sleep. Instead, he picked up the folder and read through Gabriel’s notes again. And Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to leave – he desperately needed him to stay, so much that it was manifesting itself as throbbing chest pain catching up his breath again. He silently pleaded with himself to say something, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. All the loving things he had wanted to say to Crowley over the last few years had not just been too dangerous to speak out loud, they’d been too hard for Crowley to hear. Now the words wouldn’t come.

“Well, I’m tired.” Crowley rocked towards him, and Aziraphale could smell him. It was like fresh turned earth and cut grass and leather upholstery and a dangerous hint of brimstone. “If I stay any longer, I won’t be able to drive.”

It almost sounded like a question. But surely that was his imagination.

What would Crowley do if he told him that he wanted him to stay, that he never wanted Crowley out of his sight again because he loved him? Most likely, Crowley wouldn’t believe him and wouldn’t want to listen. Whenever he tried to give Crowley kind words in the past, the demon acted as if he’d been scalded. But they were running out of time. Hell and Heaven would take another try at them, of that he was sure.

Maybe there was another way to show his devotion. 

“Perhaps … perhaps I could ask you for a favor, dear.” There, his voice had cracked a few times, but it hadn’t broken. That hadn’t been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Crowley smiled. “I suppose I owe you for not smiting me. Ask me anything, angel, and it’s yours.”

Oh. Oh, that was … very sweet. He swallowed, and his mouth was completely dry. “It’s just … well, it’s nothing, really, only I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore whether we’re seen together, and I thought … and you should feel free to turn me down …”

Crowley stood over him and leaned down until their faces were separated by a mere inch. His golden eyes were all Aziraphale could see, his breath was all he could feel. “Say it. Don’t make me torture it out of you.”

It seemed easiest to say it very fast. “It’s just that I’ve always wanted to brush your hair.”

Crowley blinked, very un-snakelike. “It. You. Ngh. Gah.”

Heat rushed into Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Please, just forget I said anything—”

“Noooo,” Crowley said. “Nope, nope, I’m not forgetting that.” He tilted his head. “Could I maybe lie down on the couch?”

“Yes, of course.” They weren’t able to meet each other’s eyes, but Crowley didn’t grab his glasses. This request didn’t seem to have broken anything between them beyond repair. And now Crowley would stay. Close, where he belonged.

Aziraphale found a light novel to browse when Crowley dropped off to sleep and a hairbrush. He sat on the couch, and Crowley put his head in his lap with a smile that Aziraphale could only classify as fond. He ran his hand through his demon’s dark red hair, and the sensation of softness slipping between his fingers made his whole corporation shiver. He had always wanted to do this, for so many years, more years than he wanted to count. Crowley hummed contentedly and nuzzled his head in Aziraphale’s palm.

“I’ve always loved your hair,” he confessed, hoping it didn’t make Crowley cringe.

“I like your hair. ‘S fluffy.” Crowley yawned. “I’ll probably fall right asleep, you know,” he said in a thick voice.

“That’s fine, dear.” 

Crowley closed his eyes while Aziraphale brushed his hair and studied his face. He was so beautiful – his cheekbones, his lips, his neck, all of him. Breathtakingly beautiful. If only he could save Crowley from Hell forever. Hell wouldn’t give up, he knew that for sure. Crowley was their best asset.**

** Legal disclaimer: Crowley was definitely not Hell’s best asset, being a traitor and all.

They might not have much time before Heaven and Hell tried to take them again. Heaven didn’t want Aziraphale anymore, the Archangels wanted him destroyed, and his biggest worry was how he could stop Crowley from leaving his side. Did that mean he was Fallen? 

Maybe. It didn’t seem fair that his Fall would be so gentle, surrounded by his books with his best friend falling asleep in his lap, when Crowley’s Fall had been so painful. His anger flared again, directed at anyone who had hurt Crowley for asking questions. Not God herself because Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever understand what She had intended or if it had been carried out to Her liking. That was too big and too complicated for now. But he could handle being angry at Gabriel and the rest of the angels for being unforgiving. He could be angry at Beelzebub and the rest of the demons for daring to torture Crowley just because they could. 

He yawned. He wasn’t prone to sleep like Crowley was. His mind was never willing to stop racing on its wheel, around and around, just like it was doing now. But perhaps he’d just take a moment to enjoy being here. He’d come so close to losing it all. He’d even been thankful to see the cursed Bentley restored. He could be grateful to Her for the present. And if he Fell to keep moments like this, maybe it would be worth it. He wasn’t sure how both of things could be true at once, and he was too tired to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now that demonic contracts are about to be burned, the plot should pick up. Next chapter we go to Hell.


	3. Hell is Other Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub assesses their new position in Hell. It’s so bad that they’re driven to SoHo. Also, Gabriel is there, for reasons best left unexamined.

Demons do not believe in loyalty.

Sure, the whole “Hail Satan” thing seemed to imply loyalty, but it wasn’t loyalty to Satan. It was more loyalty against: against God’s grace, against Heaven, against concepts such as love and faithfulness and especially loyalty.**

**The concept of loyalty against loyalty was tough for lower level demons, so Dagon taught a class named “Loyalty Against Loyalty: Perspectives.” The class curriculum consisted of labs where flexible cameras were inserted into body orifices to prove that no such thing as loyalty could be found in the demon’s corporation, from any perspective. Beelzebub considered the classes a roaring success.

Once the traitor Crowley’s trial had failed so spectacularly, it was only natural that the demons who had seemed loyal to Beelzebub dropped away like – something very short lived.

Only yesterday, Beelzebub could walk through the crowded corridors of Hell and be greeted with bows and curtseys, demons on bended knee falsely pledging their eternal lives to them, pleading for a moment of their favor. Now, as they wound their way through the halls to their office, demons had the nerve to turn their backs on them without even a slight brain hemorrhage from fear. It was unsettling, and not in the way they liked, either.

They were sure demons were competing for the honor to betray them to Satan, confiding that the trial had been Beelzebub’s idea. Usually, nobody had the courage to confront Satan with bad news other than Beelzebub themselves. But the other Princes were salivating for their blood. They’d get over their fear of Satan’s post-Notpocalypse temper eventually.

They slammed their office door. First the traitor Crowley helped the Antichrist throw off his father’s control. Then he proved himself immune to holy water. Everything that had befallen Beelzebub could be traced back to Crowley’s good efforts. And good efforts, as every proper demon knew, were the most dangerous efforts of all.

Dagon stood stiffly in front of their desk. Every other demon could find some way to separate itself from Beelzebub, but they and Dagon had worked together too closely for too long. Everyone knew that Dagon was their most trusted lieutenant. They would sink or swim together. Dagon scowled at them, and Beelzebub nodded solemnly, accepting this as they would from no other being.

“They’ve all left you,” Dagon said.

“Of course they have. More glory we won’t have to share when we restart the apocalypse.”

“If it can be restarted,” she said darkly.

“Puberty will come for Adam Young soon. Let’z see how he likez hiz Earthly father then.” 

“And the traitors?”

They were amused by the plural form. “I don’t think we can technically hold a grudge against the angel for defying Heaven. It’z our brand, after all.” 

But they were angry at the traitor angel, very much so. It might be different if he had cursed Heaven like the rest of the Fallen. But all Aziraphale and Crowley seemed to want was to be left alone. Which they would not be. Hell didn’t give in to terrorist demands. Hell had invented terrorist demands. Fealty was owed by angels and demons alike, and there were no escape clauses. And they owed Crowley so much pain. The trial had been the biggest mistake they had made in their existence.**

**Beelzebub did not consider rebelling against Heaven a mistake, even if the accommodations afterward left something to be desired.

“If Crowley isn’t punished,” Dagon said, “you will lose respect here entirely.”

They didn’t need Dagon sullenly pointing out the obvious. They needed to marshal what little resources they had: their wits, Dagon’s access to information, and Ligur’s back channel connections—

No. Not Ligur. That was yet another disaster to add to the traitors’ crimes. 

“Where’z Hastur?” they growled. “Gone to pledge himself to Leviathan?”

Dagon rolled her eyes. “No. He’s moping.”

“Lordz of Hell do not mope.”

“Fine. He’s lurking with intent to sigh loudly and eat ice cream straight from the carton.”**

**A truly demonic act under the right circumstances, such as when you’ve bought the ice cream and someone else is eating it from the carton. This, however, was not the case with Hastur.

Dagon stepped closer and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, Hastur is depressed.”

“Depressed?” Nonsense. Demons didn’t get depressed, especially not traditionalists like Hastur. Demons caused depression. They certainly didn’t wallow in it. “Send him in here.”

Apparently, they still held enough control over Dagon to have a simple command respected. And Hastur obeyed the order, although he dragged his feet and stared at the floor instead of across Beelzebub’s desk.

“You are intensely interested in punishing the traitor, yez?” Beelzebub asked him. “What ideaz do you have to present?”**

**A lousy PowerPoint presentation could usually placate Beelzebub, and Hastur was technically inept enough to create a distractingly evil hash of Windows ClipArt, rainbow fonts, and star wipes.

Hastur shrugged. He didn’t bother to make eye contact when their flies landed on his face. “What’s the use?” he finally said. “Nothing will ever come of it.”

Beelzebub almost choked on their surprise. “You don’t want revenge on Crowley? Nothing appealz? Flaying, dismemberment, defeathering? We could make him film erectile dysfunction advertisementz.”

Hastur’s eyes remained black and glazed over. “It’ll never happen now,” he said, “and if Hell can’t hand out punishment, there’s no point to anything.”

Useless. Hastur was useless now. 

“May I go to my library?” Dagon asked, her voice edging closely to impatience.

Beelzebub studied her. “What did you and Michael talk about while she waz here?”

“Hundreds of years of secret meetings.” She looked at Hastur, but he appeared to be drifting in his own private world, safe to ignore. “Michael and I don’t agree on much, but we concur that the traitors should have been supervised more effectively.”

That was a direct blow. The flies massed in an angry swarm. “Are you implying that I cocked up my job?”

“I have copies of the surveillance pictures.” Dagon was cool now, nose held high. “I could be convinced to keep them to myself.”

“Blackmail?” Beelzebub hated to admit how impressed they were. Dagon truly understood loyalty against loyalty.

She smiled, displaying her jagged teeth, and turned her back on him, walking out without explicit permission. That was worse than being blackmailed. She had lost her fear of them. So much for sinking or swimming together. 

“Can I go watch television?” Hastur asked.**

**If you must know, Hell mostly shows reruns of _Three’s Company_. It’s not as funny as you may have heard. Also, none of Hell’s episodes feature Suzanne Somers. 

“Go,” they growled. Hastur sighed as if he had harbored hopes of being discorporated on the spot and shuffled out.

There was no time to waste, and they got right to work. Hell didn’t have a fancy spinning globe like Heaven did for eavesdropping on Earth. Instead, Beelzebub’s office had a rack of unwieldy flat maps that had to be pulled out individually and carried to their desk, but they were accustomed to Hell’s inconveniences. They found the map that contained London, fought it out of its rack, and wrangled the heavy map on top of their desk. They scanned for Crowley’s signature presence, a serpentine black coil of smoke. It came from a street not far from Crowley’s lair. They panned in closer. 

Suddenly, they were assaulted by a strong sense of anger. It was intensely personal, aimed directly at them. They fell back in their desk chair, tasting the rage coming from the map, the rage named Beelzebub, and getting dizzy and pleasantly intoxicated on it. Ah, the complex flavors of a personal vendetta. How delicious. They inhaled deeply and caught a tang of lust mixed in with the anger. That wasn’t directed at them, but it made a for a tasty seasoning. 

They bent over the map again. The strong emotions were coming from someone with Crowley. It must be the angel. Oh, how wonderful. His anger didn’t taste like righteous divine wrath at all. It was personal and bitchy and positively demon-worthy. Beelzebub wanted it all for themselves.

And why shouldn’t they have it? The traitor angel belonged in Hell.

They grabbed their phone, almost dropping it due to the lightheadedness the angel’s sins were engendering in them. Gabriel picked up on the first ring.

“You come up with something?” Gabriel barked, his normally melodious voice harsh.**

**Yes, Gabriel had a beautiful voice. Everyone knew that about him. It wasn’t the kind of beauty Hell was supposed to appreciate, and they weren’t being all weird about it.

He might have said more, but Hell’s cellular reception was as spotty as always. They sharpened their concentration on reducing the static hissing; they had neither forgiven nor forgotten yesterday's “sunshine” comment and would be keeping score.

“Where iz the angel’z lair?” they asked.

“You mean the bookshop?” 

“Am I supposed to know what that meanz?”

Great, now they had to listen to Gabriel’s smug, ‘I know something you don’t know’ voice. “It’s a shop. Aziraphale sells books to humans.”

“Why? No, don’t answer. I don’t actually want to know.” Their flies crawled over the map, attracted to the swirl of emotions. “Tell me the addrezz.”

“You’re going to walk into Aziraphale’s bookshop with a pack of demons? I can’t condone that.”

Beelzebub guessed Gabriel would condone anything that would get him off the hook. Evidently, he wanted to be talked into it. “I waz planning on going alone.”

“You’re going to walk into Aziraphale’s bookshop and confront an angel immune to hellfire who’s equipped with holy water by yourself?”

By all the saints, they were being an idiot, letting the desire they felt for the angel’s anger muddy their thinking. They couldn’t walk in there alone, even when the lair was empty. It wouldn’t be warded against demons thanks to Crowley, but with the serpent immune to holy water, the lair could certainly be booby trapped.

“You know how it iz. Nobody down here I trust. I’ll come up with another plan.”

They were just waiting for Gabriel to start talking so they could disconnect him mid-word when the archangel said, “I could always go with you.”

It startled Aziraphale’s rage right out of them. “Why would you do that?”

“So you don’t get hurt.”

Maybe they were hearing wrong on the shitty connection. They probed the edges of Gabriel’s words as best they could. It seemed to be a straightforward, honest statement. The archangel couldn’t lie about something that large, could he? He shouldn’t be capable of it.

“Alright,” they said slowly. Gabriel was big enough to hide behind if there were holy water traps. And Gabriel didn’t need to find out about their determination to drag Aziraphale down to Hell. As long as they restarted the apocalypse, Gabriel probably wouldn’t care where Aziraphale wound up. “We’ll wait until they leave the angel’z lair.”

“The bookshop,” Gabriel said pedantically, being a conceited pedant.** “Angels don’t have lairs.”

**Beelzebub resolved to call him a pedant the next time they saw him. They had a hunch Gabriel didn’t know what it meant and would get extremely angry.

“Right, angelz have bookshopz.”

“You know that angels don’t have – oh, you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” they said. “I’ve lost Crowley’z signal, so he must be asleep. We can check back in a few hourz.”

“Asleep?” Gabriel sputtered. “Like a human?”

They blew out a disgusted breath. “I’ve told you how it iz. Satan haz a soft spot for the serpent of Eden.” Perhaps not any longer though. That was an encouraging thought. “He coasted on that one accomplishment for too long, and my handz were tied.”

“I know what you mean,” Gabriel said, rehashing office gripes the two of them had often hashed. “Everyone here is offering me constructive criticism on my management style. Exactly who did they think was going to replace Aziraphale on Earth if I came down hard on him?”

“You were easy on him. Angelic, even.”

“Well, it’s my nature. At least I never had to deal with him sleeping. I’m surprised you let that slide.”

“It’z the sloth thing. It’z a thin line between sinning and lazinezz.”**

**They would’ve been surprised to learn Crowley had spent close to 80 years sleeping once without Beelzebub being the wiser, thanks to Aziraphale filing reports for him detailing a daring spy ring Crowley was running from his flat with mysterious men known as Sherlock Holmes and Captain Nemo. How Holmes and Nemo never turned up in Hell had always ticked Beelzebub off.

“Oh, well, lessons learned,” Gabriel said blithely. That was disturbing. They weren’t sure angels and demons were able to learn lessons. Maybe it was just a figure of speech. “What do you think you’ll find in the bookshop when they’re gone?”

“Some way to get to the Antichrist. Some way to punish Crowley.” Some way to lap up that sweet rage they’d felt coming from the traitor angel.

“Can you punish him?” Gabriel asked. “Is he still a demon?”

Beelzebub made a sound that could’ve passed for laughter. “Of course he’z a demon. What else would he be? He’z a demon bound to hell. I have him tied up in more tortuouz contractz than a Trump mail order bride. Why do you ask?” Their flies circled the phone curiously. “You’re not sure that Aziraphale iz still an angel?”

“He hasn’t Fallen. We still have connections to him.”

How irritating. “Can’t you fill out a form, make that happen?”

“It doesn’t work like that. It has to come directly from Her.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “Do you remember how it happened when you Fell?”

Beelzebub hung up on him. The conversation had ceased to be interesting.

It was many hours before Crowley woke and left the bookshop, taking the tasty angel with him, and Beelzebub had to wait it out, linear time on Earth being the bitch it was. They called Gabriel and arranged to meet in front of the bookshop.

“This is exciting,” Gabriel said. “We can pretend to be humans shopping for books. What kind of books should we look for?”

“Shut up,” they said.** 

**They might’ve been more patient had they known what kinds of books Gabriel had looked for in the recent past. It didn’t occur to them that Gabriel might surprise them. Even though they were able to switch to multifaceted fly vision, they had certain blind spots.

They probed the foundation of the shop for wards. The wards were low level, and interestingly set up against both angels and demons, but nothing too powerful for either Crowley or Aziraphale to pass through regularly, which meant they and Gabriel could blow past the wards with ease.

“You first.” They prodded Gabriel in the back. That should neutralize any threat of holy water traps. If there were hellfire traps, well, that would be a shame. They’d spent centuries breaking in Gabriel. But you couldn’t break an egg without breaking an egg.**

**Hell was not very big on witty aphorisms.

Gabriel entered the bookshop without incident, Beelzebub right after. Their first impression was of crowded, narrow passageways cluttered with stacks of old books and an overpowering smell of rotting flowers.**

**The flowers were fresh cut, just purchased an hour ago. But to Beelzebub, entropy was a philosophy, and everything that existed was in a state of rot. They have a point if you dare to pursue it.

How fascinating. Here was an angel who didn’t care for the sterile cleanliness of Heaven. The bookshop was as pressed for space as Hell. They were beginning to see how Crowley had been sucked in. It was warm in here, too, warm enough to accommodate a snake. Beelzebub also hated the cold.

“Oh. Ugh. Damn, that—” Gabriel grabbed the sides of his head and collapsed on a nearby couch, moaning softly.

“What? What iz it?” They panicked for a moment. Had their probing missed a powerful ward? They’d been willing to sacrifice Gabriel if it was unavoidable, but not due to their own carelessness. That would be hard to swallow.

Gabriel’s expression curdled, and he looked a little green. “It’s love. It’s everywhere. I don’t know how I didn’t sense it before. This place is just dripping with it.”

“That botherz you? I thought you angelz lived on the stuff.”

“Not love for a demon. That’s just disgusting.”

“Of course,” Beelzebub said dryly, their panic leaving them completely.

“Something changed since the last time I was here.” Gabriel clutched his stomach.

“I can’t imagine what.” They scanned the titles on the shelves. What would an angel need with so many books?

“Although the last time I was here, the place had Crowley stink all over it. I didn’t realize what it was, but—” He gasped. “Aziraphale lied to me about what it was. That’s why I didn’t figure it out.”

“He lied?” They were pleased they’d brought Gabriel on this reconnaissance mission. He was full of useful information. “He can lie to you.”

Gabriel was turning an enjoyable shade of red. “He lied directly to my face. To cover up a love affair with a demon. And he hasn’t Fallen.”

“So punish him.” Their gaze continued along the next row of books. “I’ve been devising many creative punishmentz for Crowley.”**

**Not really. Beelzebub could be very clever, but there was a reason they hadn’t been put in charge of torture. They’d gotten as far as using pieces of Crowley’s soul as curtains in their office before giving up the thought experiment to focus on more practical matters.

They rounded the bookcase to read another shelf of titles. These books were older and exuded an unusual smell they couldn’t place. They read the first title. Then the second title. Their stomach dropped. Then they read both titles again. They read the third title, their ears ringing.

“Demon summoning.” They barely realized they were speaking out loud. “These are books used to summon demons.”

Hell had very definite ideas about demon summoning. They were very definitely against it.

Gabriel, in his weakened state, waved his arm into the bookstore vaguely. “There’s a summoning circle under the carpet.”

“There’z a—” They growled involuntarily. “Crowley knew about thiz? What are the traitorz planning?” 

“I’ll tell you what I’d do to punish the lovebirds,” Gabriel said bitterly. “Every morning, I’d wipe Crowley’s memory and watch while he treats Aziraphale like a stranger. And every afternoon, I’d restore Crowley’s memory and wipe Aziraphale’s memory. And I’d let them suffer like that for all eternity.”

Beelzebub whistled. That was certainly better than anything they’d come up with. “It’s too bad they’ll both be in Hell where you won’t be able to watch uz torture them.”

“No, they won’t. What makes you think Aziraphale will be in Hell?”

“Oh, he’z filled fat with sin, that one. Like a jelly donut.”

“He’s an angel,” Gabriel said. “And whether I approve or not, it doesn’t look like loving a demon is considered by Her to be a mortal sin. Once they get discorporated—”

“Or we restart the apocalypse.”

“Or the humans destroy the planet. Whichever comes first. Aziraphale will end up in my office, and Crowley will end up in yours.”

“Yesssss.” Beelzebub’s flies had been basking in the warmth, but now they perked up and flew in excited zigzags. “They’ll be separated forever.”

“At least I’ll have that small consolation,” Gabriel said.

“Don’t you get it, Gabriel? We have something they want.” Beezlebub grinned. “We have the upper hand. Now we can make a trade. If they don’t want to be separated for eternity, they’ll have to contact the Antichrist for uz.”

Gabriel’s frown was skeptical. “It would be easier to wipe their memories. A little water from the Lethe River would do the trick as far as I’m concerned.”**

**Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, is one of the five rivers in the underworld. Beelzebub didn’t get there often. They’d accumulated a few decades of vacation time but never expected to use it, as every time they requested it, Hell was too busy that week to spare them. They’d implemented that vacation policy themselves. It was modelled on Starbucks.

“And where did you learn how to torture—”

They gasped. A sharp, squeezing pain grabbed their chest, and for a moment, they couldn’t get any more words out, only a rattling, choking sound. They flopped on the couch next to Gabriel.

“They … they’re burning my contractz,” they said quietly. And as the pain subsided, white hot rage burned across their vision. “They’re burning my contractz!”

“You demons and your contracts.” Gabriel wrinkled his forehead. “So, can all of the demons under you burn your contracts? That doesn’t seem very practical. All that fire in Hell—”

“No, you idiot. It’s your blessed bloody angel doing it. It’z both of them together!”

Gabriel’s happy smile was incredibly obnoxious. He could almost be a demon, smiling like that. “Well, you seem motivated.”

They curled their hands into tight fists, nails digging into their palms. Motivated didn’t begin to describe it. “Thiz iz the plan. We tell them if they want to see each other after the world endz, they’ll have to make a decision between Heaven and Hell.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, like I’m going to let a demon into Heaven.”

They grabbed his scarf and yanked it tight, pulling him close, mere inches from their face.**

**Hell was obviously not on the metric system.

“You are going to take Crowley. Pretend you’re taking him to Heaven, but take him and wipe hiz memory. If he doesn’t remember anything about hiz life on Earth, he’ll be happy to do hiz demonic duty and prod the Antichrist into action.”**

**Beelzebub had no doubt Hell would win the next Great Celestial War. The Antichrist walked the Earth, Hell had never been more powerful, and humans had definitely never been more sinful. Even as they spoke to Gabriel, humans were somewhere inventing ways to make more things out of plastic and then argue with each other about recycling.

“Okay,” Gabriel said. “So, you’re going to take Aziraphale?”

“I’ll keep Aziraphale out of your way while you get the job done.” They were going to drag that angel to Hell and keep him there forever.

Gabriel pulled his scarf out of their grasp. With his corporation’s physical strength, he could’ve done so at any time, but the element of surprise is a powerful weapon in a demon’s arsenal, and it had worked for a short time there, apparently.

“This plan doesn’t sound too awful,” he said. “All I have to do is wipe a demon’s memory. I can’t imagine She’d have any problem with that.”

They rolled their eyes. “Spare me your justificationz. Save them for your bedtime prayerz.” 

They thought that would’ve gotten a reaction, but Gabriel simply stood and checked his suit for wrinkles. “Can we go now? This place is making us both queasy.”

“And not in the good way,” they agreed. “If I know Crowley, he wouldn’t dare burn hiz contractz in the open. They’re holed up in hiz lair.”

It was time for the serpent to greet two unexpected guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for comments and kudos. They mean more than I can say. 
> 
> I'm wondering if I should post more often than M-W-F since the holidays are coming up. I may move to posting every weekday.


	4. Who Wants to Live Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Crowley wanted Gabriel in his flat, he would have asked. Maybe while Gabriel was saying “Shut up and die already,” maybe that would have been an appropriate time to discuss social invitations … not that Crowley was there or anything.

The morning after his visit to Heaven in disguise, Crowley woke early because his legs were cramped from hanging over the edge of the bookshop’s couch. His brain tried to remind him why he’d decided to sleep for so long in the bookshop, and it kept screaming at him to stay still and quiet, but he was uncomfortable and stretched as he opened his eyes. And realized he was sleeping in Aziraphale’s lap.

Instinct made him coil up. If he couldn’t come up with a good justification for being here, he could always revert to his snake form. See if Aziraphale could ask him any questions then, heh.**

**Crowley preferred not to revert to being a snake because it made it hard to think properly. It was incredibly effective, though, in situations where people expected him to stand up and answer for his behavior. It would’ve made the perfect getaway for heists if only the act of heisting didn’t require hands.

But Aziraphale was asleep. He was slouched into the couch cushions with his head tilted back, drooling just a little. It was freaking adorable. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale sleep since practically the beginning of the world. The closer their spirits had grown, the more barriers they’d needed to put up. He hadn’t dared to imagine he’d ever see Aziraphale this vulnerable again. So he was content to stare and memorize the way his angel breathed so intimately and peacefully, and yes, the way he drooled.

Aziraphale had given up Heaven to stay here on Earth – with him. Crowley didn’t try to fool himself that giving up Hell was in any way equivalent. He’d finally realized in the 19th century that Hell wouldn’t be content to merely torture him for eternity. Once they discovered the Arrangement, he was dead. It hadn’t seemed real to him until the tarmac in Tadfield that Heaven would want Aziraphale dead. Not that he thought prats like Gabriel and Sandalphon were the forgiving sort – Crowley knew better than that.

Aziraphale was the best of them. The kindest, the most forgiving, the most capable of caring for people properly and not mucking it up. Heaven didn’t have the right to kill him. They would, though, unless Crowley stopped them. There and then, he vowed in the blackened shell of his heart that he wouldn’t leave Aziraphale alone, ever. That was the only way to be sure he was safe.**

**What humans would call his conscience told him that there were, possibly, other ways, but Crowley had never let scruples stop him before, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.

All he had to do was stop Aziraphale from realizing Crowley was guarding him around the clock. Fortunately, he was a pro at subterfuge.

Aziraphale’s face twitched, and he squished his eyes together. He was waking up. It was absolutely freaking adorable. Crowley closed his eyes and deepened his breathing.

“Did I … did I fall asleep?”

“Huh? What?” Crowley rubbed his eyes, pretending to be slowly coming out of deep slumber. He didn’t want to relinquish his position on Aziraphale’s lap until the last possible second, but as Aziraphale raised a skeptical eyebrow, he reluctantly sat up.

Aziraphale broke into one of his brilliant, luminous smiles, and he nudged Crowley with his elbow. “You don’t fool me, you wily serpent. You woke up before I did.”

“Never.” Crowley stretched, cracking his spine, and considered using a fake yawn to slip an arm around Aziraphale. He didn’t dare get farther than considering it, but it was still turning out to be a damn fine morning.

They decided to walk to a local café for egregiously overpriced coffees, which led to a lively discussion about the morality of charging four pounds for a small takeaway coffee because it was labelled “free trade.” No conclusions were reached. The walk was slow and easy, and the morning sun was gentle and warming. Crowley was afraid that Aziraphale would be paralyzed with anxiety after the whole defying Heaven and Hell thing.** 

**Crowley refused to give the Armageddon that didn’t happen a cutesy name – at least until he could figure out how to work a rude word into it.

But the angel was more relaxed than Crowley had seen him in years while sober. He wanted to sit at a sidewalk table for a croissant breakfast, during which he talked animatedly about how lovely Tadfield was and how nice it had been to get out in the country. Of course, it hadn’t been nice at all. Tadfield had been blindingly terrifying for both of them. But Crowley nodded and did his best to sneak his chair closer whenever Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him. This was usually easier. Today, Aziraphale hardly ever broke eye contact to look at his breakfast. Crowley felt like he was being submerged in Aziraphale’s attention, barely able to come up for air.

On the way back to the bookshop and the Bentley, they passed a florist’s, and Crowley stopped to browse the window for some destructive criticism when a thought hit him. “Angel, let’s buy some bouquets for the bookshop.”

“Oh!” The suggestion merited happy wiggles. “That’s a lovely idea! We should get some roses for your flat, too.”

“Armfuls and armfuls.” Crowley was prepared to buy out the entire shop. He knew Aziraphale remembered the Victorian language of flowers, and he picked out red, yellow, and coral roses, plenty of tulips regardless of cost, and deep crimson carnations. 

Aziraphale asked the florist for a single white chrysanthemum, which he presented to Crowley with a shy smile and flushed cheeks. Crowley lost the ability to breathe while the entire world narrowed down to Aziraphale tentatively tucking the bloom into his jacket’s buttonhole.**

**Many years after this story ends, Dagon was asked to annotate the records of these events. She never finished the project, but here are her notes on floral language: “Yellow roses are symbols of caring and fiendship. No, that’s friendship. Really? Red roses are an unmistakable expression of love, longing, desire. Coral roses (cross-reference to pinkish orange) represent desire. This is _disgusting_. Tulips – also declarations of love. I don’t see what I’ve done to deserve this assignment. He’s supposed to be a demon. Crimson carnations – love. White chrysanthemums represent love and loyalty. That’s it, I quit.”

By the time they got back to the bookshop with the bouquets, Crowley felt like he was overflowing his own skin. The way Aziraphale had been looking at him since waking – he tried his damnedest to squash down whatever tendrils of hope had the nerve to try to reach sunlight. He paced around the bookshelves, glaring through his dark glasses as if angels waited in ambush behind each one. 

“You’re itching for a long, fast ride in the Bentley,” Aziraphale said. “I felt the same way about getting back to the shop yesterday.”

“You think so?” A drive did sound like just the thing, but … “I drove here yesterday. Was fine.”

“Yes, but you need to know, don’t you? How fast you can take it after Adam put it back together.”

Aziraphale stopped puttering with the flowers and a vase that looked like it had been stuck in a cabinet since the Regency era. How was it possible that his angel wasn’t in the habit of receiving flowers? That would have to change. He gave Crowley a smug smile, as if he were waiting for Crowley to acknowledge how right he was. 

Crowley shrugged. “Kid probably doesn’t know much about infernal engineering. Don’t want to get surprised by the engine blowing up when we really need it.”

He meant when they were running for their lives from angels, or demons, or witches or witchfinders (he wasn’t sure which side to root for there). Most likely, it would be angels coming for Aziraphale. It would take Hell’s infernal bureaucracy years to sort out what to do about a demon immune to holy water. But with that prat Gabriel in charge, Heaven could retaliate so much faster. Oh, wouldn’t it be fun to introduce that prat Gabriel to the Bentley.

“Have fun, dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Nnno. No. Noooo.” He wondered if he could physically drag Aziraphale out of the shop. Probably not. He’d have to use his wiles. “You’re coming.”

“Oh, um, I think I should probably open the shop. Customers and all that.”

“I won’t drive very fast. I’ll, you know, think on the speed limit concept.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Are you trying to convince me that you’d drive carefully? You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“About as much as I believe you’re going to open the shop.”

“Well, I …” Aziraphale looked around the shop for a moment and back up at Crowley. Then he burst out laughing. It was beautiful, musical, and the whole room – the entire block, probably – brightened. 

“I wouldn’t even consider opening the shop,” he admitted. “I couldn’t possibly deal with customers today, what a thought.”

“’S ridiculous, angel.” He slithered up close to Aziraphale. “Come for a ride. It’s a beautiful day. We have to go back to my flat anyway for your burning party.”

“It’s not my burning party, it’s us officially putting in our resignations.” He gathered the folder with that prat Gabriel’s missives. This was really working, he was actually convincing Aziraphale to get in the car and go for a ride. 

Out of habit, though, they both searched the street outside the bookshop, looking for observers and spies. It couldn’t hurt to remain vigilant. He couldn’t accurately call it exhausting when they had spent the last millennium looking over their shoulders. At least they didn’t have to worry about being ratted out for fraternizing. They were on their own side now, and everyone knew it, and although Crowley felt it was the winning side, it was also the side that needed to be very careful and not let anything happen to Aziraphale, and it was a bit tiring to know that wasn’t going to change any time soon, if at all, ever.

The Bentley seemed restored to her original glory. The black paint glowed as if it had been washed and waxed by hand. The chrome gleamed. He circled it, carefully assessing for any fire damage and finding none. The interior smelled like fine leather. The satellite radio snapped on immediately at his touch, calibrating itself to the man-made moon above whose only purpose was to deliver him any type of music ever invented on a whim.**

**Obviously not on Crowley’s whim. The Bentley had the final say in music, which only seemed fair.

He gunned the accelerator, soaking in the leonine, sensual roar of the engine, and grinned.

Aziraphale was already clinging to the door. “I’m going to hate this. I just know it.”

This test drive would be the first time since waking that either one of them had used miracles of any kind, and it had been a glorious morning. But Aziraphale was right – Crowley had to know firsthand that the Bentley was his baby again.  
It was a little-known fact that a 1926 Bentley Speed 6 saloon had a top speed of 84 miles per hour. That was an incredible speed for an automobile that predated the first armored car robbery, but it was nowhere near the top speed of a brand new Bentley Continental GT V8 (198 mph). Crowley, on principle, had matched the speed of every new Bentley as it rolled off the assembly line. Today, as he rounded the M25, he decided it was time to stop being constrained by the imagination of the Bentley engineers and see what he could _really_ do.

When they arrived in Mayfair a minute or two later, Aziraphale was whimpering.

“’S not like I went supersonic or anything.” Could the Bentley go supersonic? What a fun idea. 

He gave Aziraphale a few minutes to collect himself before he patted the dashboard approvingly, got out, and opened the passenger door. 

“If I’m ever conflicted about how to pray in light of recent events,” Aziraphale said, “insist on taking me for a drive.”

“Brings you closer to the divine, doesn’t it?” He almost reached in to help Aziraphale out of the car.

“In a manner of speaking.” Aziraphale stood and leaned on the open door, gulping for air. 

Crowley almost took his arm to walk him to his building. He almost rested his palm on the small of his angel’s back to guide him. He didn’t do either of those things, but he walked closer than usual to Aziraphale, swinging his arms next to Aziraphale’s arms so they “accidentally” touched there … and there. Aziraphale stumbled the second time, so Crowley stopped doing it. Still, by the time they got in the lift, Aziraphale was smiling at him, doing that bubbling with sweetness and light thing he did to lift the spirits of people in general.**

** You know, just people. In general. Not specific demons or anything.

“You’ve checked on Warlock, haven’t you?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley rolled his shoulders. “He’s fine.” Crowley hadn’t called yet, but like most economically privileged 11-year-olds, Warlock lived his life online and it was easy to check on him. Nanny would have to remind him to be more discreet. “His awful father decided that _something_ gave him a bad feeling, and the solution is sending his son back to the States to be turned into a real American while there’s still time.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Poor boy. Maybe we should go see him.”

“Could use a holiday. We sure as hell deserve one.” London felt too crowded and too full of threats. “I can’t drive across the Atlantic, though.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You don’t know how to fly a plane, do you?”

He leaned in close to talk just above a whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “That’s not usually how I fly long distances.”

He wasn’t sure why he had gotten so close. They were the only ones in the lift. But it felt good, especially when Aziraphale gave him a conspirator’s grin and an adorable little nose twitch. Then he stepped on tiptoes to speak quietly into Crowley’s ear. “No, you usually sit in first class and guzzle bad champagne.”

The vibration of that voice in his ear, and the heat of that breath on his skin, sent chills through his spine down to his hips. It was almost impossible to stay upright, and he leaned against the wall just as the lift door opened. Was the whole day going to be like this, with these periodic little thrills and all the eye contact and physical closeness? How was he supposed to keep his wanting under his usual iron-clad control?**

**Eh, we’ll give him this one. The last eleven years had tested everyone’s patience.

On the balcony of his flat, he conjured up a fire pit. Burning Beelzebub’s contracts didn’t bother him a bit – not even a twinge of fear in his chest. Aziraphale had to put them in the fire pit and make sure they burned, but to Crowley, it felt like burning blank sheets of paper. Of course, he knew what happened to humans who burnt the evidence of their Faustian bargains – they went to Hell, where they belonged. He didn’t expect burning the contracts to change anything.

After their infernal contracts and ethereal missives had turned to ash, they sat and looked over the city, with its now safe humans, and talked about booking flights to Washington DC to visit Warlock. Crowley had never liked DC. The city tasted of ambition of the most banal sort. But there were nice museums and restaurants, and they’d never enjoyed it together.**

**Well, they’d both been there during the Bay of Pigs, and there had been one memorable night of terrible musical theater and delectable dirty martinis. Say what you will about DC, Crowley could always find a good martini there.

By the time Crowley suggested an early lunch out, he’d practically forgotten that the fire had been symbolic. His thoughts were a churning mess. Why did Aziraphale want to go on holiday with him? What did it mean? Was he sitting closer than usual? Most importantly, what would be the best way to tempt Aziraphale into spending the night? He kept up a surface-level conversation, leaning forward eagerly (but not too eagerly? Probably too eagerly) into everything Aziraphale suggested, while his imagination tortured him. Aziraphale was acting so happy because the world was saved and he loved people in general.**

**Same people in general as before, okay?

Aziraphale was acting this way because he was in shock. Because he was planning a farewell trip. Because … because they were on the same side now and that meant everything was going to change, and Crowley needed to know how. Desperately. Which meant analyzing every word he spoke, every gesture, every frown, every blessed smile.

None of this was an excuse for walking back into the flat and finding that Beelzebub and Gabriel had gotten in without him noticing. Only a few hours on Aziraphale guard and he’d completely failed.

The ozone smell of Heaven mixed with the tang of brimstone. The only way Crowley could’ve missed it was to be sitting next to an open fire pit. Beelzebub and Gabriel flanked the front door. They had apparently waltzed in from the street past all his careful wards. Aziraphale followed into the living room, and Beelzebub never took their eyes off him. 

Crowley jumped to stand in front of Aziraphale. “Oi, get out of my flat, you wankers.” 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, voice elegantly frosty. “Beelzebub. I believe Crowley just told you to leave.”

Beelzebub walked right up to him with a grin, flies circling in almost-pretty ellipses and figure eights. “Hello, angel, how are you feeling?”

Crowley was swamped by the impulse to murder his former boss with his bare hands. Just squeeze their little neck if they didn’t stop looking at Aziraphale like they were dying of thirst. The only thing that stopped his forward momentum was that he couldn’t decide whether to lunge at Beelzebub or Gabriel first.

“You can smell it all over here, too,” Gabriel said incomprehensively. “Nauseating.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Beelzebub said slowly, his eyes locked on Aziraphale. “I’ve alwayz liked the scent of lust.”

The room grew hotter and blurrier, and Crowley’s skin prickled. If Beelzebub was flirting with his angel, he was going to buy the nearest toy shop out of really large water guns and bring down Hell in the next Great Flood. Let it leave a giant fucking rainbow.

“So, you two are here together?” Aziraphale said. “How inappropriate.”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel’s voice was hearty. “You’re looking well for being in a demon’s lair.”

Crowley stalked around him in a circle while Aziraphale gave Gabriel his “this interaction is totally beneath my attention” expression, the one that could reduce Crowley to doing crazy things to get back in his good graces.**

**Attempts to stop Aziraphale from using sarcasm at him ranged from misdirecting Viking invasions all the way up to negotiating baked treats from Girl Guides. Compared to the Girl Guides, the Vikings had been a breeze.

Gabriel simply smiled, showing his perfect teeth. Crowley longed to kick the archangel out of his flat as literally as possible. But it wouldn’t work, not with Beelzebub here. He and Aziraphale might be able to take one of them on, but not both of them. The only positive in the situation was that they hadn’t been attacked. Which was odd, come to think of it. Beelzebub didn’t stop to give anyone a warning before they acted.

“Haven’t come to discorporate us?” he said.

“Oh, nooo,” Beelzebub purred at Aziraphale. 

“Then step the fuck back,” Crowley said. 

That … had probably not been wise. Beelzebub’s eyes flashed in fury, and Crowley felt insects landing their sticky, disgusting feet on his scalp. But he stood his ground between the Prince and Aziraphale. He knew where his loyalties lied, where they had always lied.

“Actually, we’re just here to finish up some paperwork.” Gabriel’s manner remained aggressively benevolent. “Cross the t’s, dot the i’s. I’m sure you’re wondering what the Hell we’re doing here.” He spread his arms in a friendly gesture. “That was a joke.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, “it wasn’t.”

Beelzebub snapped their fingers, and their flies left Crowley’s hair, which was going to need to be restyled entirely. “We just have to put your personnel filez in the right place. Either I have to give Crowley’z file to Gabriel, or he haz to give Aziraphale’z file to me.” They stared at Aziraphale possessively. “I know which I’d prefer.”

Crowley had spent centuries without ever feeling helpless, and this was the third or fourth time he’d felt absolutely helpless in as many days. The body switch should’ve bought them more than a day of freedom, but it hadn’t.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “So, gentlemen, where does this end up? Earth won’t last forever. I understand there are asteroids and melting ice caps and nuclear bombs and plastic in the oceans.” He clapped loudly. “Something has to give soon.”

Crowley, when confused, had a tendency to sidle up to Aziraphale, whose face went through a series of expressions. Finally, he settled on haughty and said, “I’m sorry, do you mean to ask us what’s going to happen to our immortal souls at the end of the world?”

“Didn’t realize it was our choice,” Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale was back to that intense eye contact. There could have been seven archangels and princes of Hell in his living room and it wouldn’t have been enough to make Crowley look away. “I think I assumed that our souls would be extinguished together when the Sun died out.”

“How romantic,” Beelzebub said with demonic disdain.

“And stupid,” Gabriel said. “Obviously, that’s not what happens. Look, you prevented Armageddon and you didn’t Fall for it, so maybe She approves. If that’s the case, then I suppose I get Crowley’s files and you both end up in Heaven.”

Oh no. Crowley’s stomach dropped because he knew, he knew, what that spark was in Aziraphale’s eyes. It was his hope that they could still come through this with Her blessings. Nothing would scrub it out of his mind now. It would always be there, that constant hope that Crowley wouldn’t be a demon anymore, that Crowley could be better than he actually was. It was only written on Aziraphale’s face for a fraction of a second, not nearly enough for that prat Gabriel to notice, before he schooled his expression to something icy again. But Crowley saw it. His mouth tasted like the ashes from their fire. 

Aziraphale didn’t give Gabriel the satisfaction of knowing his hope. He frowned as if he had been served a well-done Wagyu tenderloin with ketchup. “I thought _someone_ told Crowley he doesn’t have an immortal soul.”

Beelzebub shrugged. “That’z just a routine clause. We put that in all the contractz. It cutz down on demonz getting ideaz.” His glare at Crowley confirmed the kinds of demons and ideas he’d like to discourage.

“But it’s a lie,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course it’z a lie.” Beelzebub licked their lips. “You’re a clever one, angel. I’m sure you can figure out how Hell workz. Az a former Principality, you’d have a special place of honor, you know. None of that boring torture for you. You’d be royalty. We’d even let you keep your pet snake out of the pitz.”

“Oh, my. Crowley, did you hear that?” Aziraphale was at his most wonderfully bitchy. “A special place. Of honor. That changes everything.”

Beelzebub sucked in a loud breath. “Sarcasm. That’s what cutting sarcasm iz, Gabriel.”

“It’s not very angelic,” Gabriel said.

“I knowww.” Then Beezlebub had the nerve to give Aziraphale puppy dog eyes. The one thing Crowley couldn’t do! “Say something catty about Gabriel’z outfit, angel.”

“That’s it,” Crowley said. 

His plant mister was on the coffee table, loaded with phosphorus-heavy fertilizer dissolved in water. He grabbed it and aimed directly at Beelzebub’s face. Beelzebub shrieked – Crowley treasured the sound – and ran behind Gabriel. Crowley leaped over the coffee table in pursuit, clamping down the trigger. A mist of fertilized water landed in an arc at Beelzebub’s feet. Beelzebub darted around Gabriel again, but Crowley had long arms and a good reach. Beelzebub snapped their fingers just as Crowley hit the trigger. They melted into the floor, taking the direct route to Hell, just as the water landed.

Gabriel smiled at Aziraphale. “Demons. You can’t take them anywhere.”

“The hellfire is out on the patio.” Crowley sniffed the air.** “Can’t you smell the smolder?”

**With his nose. This was entirely for show. 

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “It really hasn’t been enjoyable to see you so soon. Please, don’t pass along my greetings to anyone.”

“Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you,” Crowley said. It was the kind of thing he’d always wanted to say to Gabriel, even if it didn’t make sense for angels wearing human corporations. It made Aziraphale giggle, though, so it was the perfect thing to say.

“I understand, I really do,” Gabriel said. “But your souls will have to go somewhere. I mean, if you want me and Beelzebub making the decision, we could flip a coin.”

“You do that,” Crowley said. “Ciao, babe.” Which also turned out to be fun to say to Gabriel. Aziraphale bit his lip trying not to laugh.

Gabriel shrugged and left through the front door. It had taken Crowley months to set up his complicated anti-angel but not anti-Aziraphale wards. Apparently, wards didn’t work that way because Gabriel pushed through them like they were wet tissue paper. 

“Oh, those two are exhausting.” Aziraphale collapsed on the stiff black leather sofa. “And rude. I thought a titled prince would have better manners.”

“Nope.” Crowley popped the p at the end. “That’s as good as it gets in Hell. Not your kind of place at all.”

He sat down next to Aziraphale carefully, fighting the impulse to blurt out something he could never take back, such as “Just admit that you want to go to Heaven with or without me.” His throat was tight and his eyes stung. He thought they’d have more time. Even with a little more time, they could—

What? What did he think they had been leading up to? Demons can’t love. Everyone knew that. Aziraphale knew it better than anyone.

“I’m not even sure I believe them,” Aziraphale said. “Gabriel must have figured out by now that I can lie to him, which means he knows he can lie to me. And what possessed him to come here in league with Beelzebub?”

“Mnh,” Crowley replied. He ransacked his brain for something better to say, but it was busy ramping up for a good long brooding session. No help there.

Aziraphale spun to face him, his crystalline blue eyes wide in alarm. “Dearest, they didn’t upset you, did they?”

The endearment dug into Crowley’s chest like an auger.**

**Or perhaps an augury. Crowley had never been entirely sure which was which. In this case, both words might apply.

“’M fine,” he said, but he could hear himself, and he sounded cracked and broken.

Aziraphale’s smile was soft and fond and shy. “I thought you were very gallant. It was as if you were defending my honor.”

“Well, yeah, I was.” He found it incredibly sweet of Aziraphale to ease into this conversation with sentiments he could express easily. 

_I love you_ , he longed to say. He had longed to say it for centuries. Millenia. But demons couldn’t say those words, no matter how hard they tried. He tried now. Maybe he could force it out. He threw off his glasses and snatched up Aziraphale’s hand. “I …” The words didn’t come. They were blocked behind the pain in his throat. They were blocked by him being what he was, who he was. He gritted his molars and tried again. “Listen, I’m trying to tell you that I … gahhh, why doesn’t this work?!”

Aziraphale lifted his free hand to Crowley’s cheek. Oh, that was nice. And Crowley sensed that they were on the knife’s edge, that exact moment when everything would change for better or for worse. 

“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale’s lips were so close.

“Stay with me tonight, angel.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was the best he could do. It wasn’t good enough for his angel, who deserved so much better.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “I love you, you know.”

His brain was kicking into a high-gear, frustrated sulk when it finally registered that Aziraphale had meant it. Aziraphale was holding his hand and his cheek and confessing his love. 

They had fallen off the knife’s edge, and Crowley absolutely would not ruin it by running away.

He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. He was so warm, so soft, so luminous. His hand on Crowley’s cheek shifted to the back of Crowley’s neck to pull him closer, deepening the kiss. Crowley closed his eyes and flicked out his tongue to inhale the angel’s aura, a mix of the bookshop and the balcony fire pit and this morning’s coffee and roses and the leather seats in the Bentley. All the things they had shared. All the things they would share.

The mingling of their immortal souls. Crowley knew he had one because it had always been Aziraphale’s for the taking.

“Late lunch?” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.

“Let’s skip it today.” Their lips touched as Aziraphale spoke. “I’m very comfortable in my demon’s lair.”

It was impossible to say who kissed who next. What mattered was that thoughts of Gabriel and Beelzebub and their astounding offer were temporarily driven from Crowley’s mind. But they circled nearby like flies, waiting for a better chance to land.


	5. Earth Angel, Earth Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short negotiation between a Prince and Principality. What’s the worst that could happen? As in worse than watching the one you love being tortured in Hell for all eternity.

Aziraphale was still in Crowley’s flat the next morning. Crowley was sound asleep, coiled up all snuggly in his bed. Aziraphale had rubbed his back until he had fallen asleep, watching his spine curve in amazingly hypnotic ways. Then he’d stayed up reading in an armchair in Crowley’s bedroom, unable to bear being in a different room. Being so close was such a privilege. 

Everything felt like the first time it had ever happened. This was the first time he was making himself tea in Crowley’s flat in the morning. This was the first time that Crowley would wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee that Aziraphale had prepared while he slept. He hummed a few bars of Aaron Copland, happy, cheery music. His heart felt lighter than it had in longer than he cared to remember.

They had the entire day to themselves to do whatever they wanted, and nobody could send them on some ridiculous blessing or tempting errand. As if Gabriel or Beelzebub had ever understood the slightest thing about humans. It had always gone smoother when he and Crowley had been given the autonomy to make their own decisions about their work.**

**That may have been because making their own decisions usually ended up as “let’s wait to see what people do without our interference, have another drink?”

Neither Gabriel nor Beelzebub was capable of understanding that there were things they didn’t know better than Aziraphale and Crowley. When it came to humans and Earth, that covered just about everything. On the other hand, when it came to Heaven and Hell … Aziraphale knew he wasn’t winning any awards for Most Observant Angel.**

**Crowley had always claimed that contest was rigged. Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he had a nagging suspicion he would be sure if only he were more observant, so he tried not to bring up the subject.

He didn’t trust Gabriel, and he mistrusted Beelzebub so much he couldn’t be entirely sure the flies were real.**

**They were for a certain value of real. They were flies on the plane of existence that included Earth. On our dimension, they needed to eat and they grew from maggots, and that was more than Aziraphale or anyone else wanted to know about them.

However, no matter what he’d reassured Crowley the night before, he didn’t have a good sense of what would happen to them if the Earth imploded, or exploded, and Gabriel and Beelzebub were in much better positions to know. He’d been quite sure Heaven didn’t want him back – they had tried to exterminate him, after all – but now Gabriel had hinted that maybe he _could_ go back, and Crowley could go with him. It was a lot to take in. 

Most importantly, Crowley had forgiven him for a lot, and he was in no way, shape, or form going to sabotage whatever was happening between them, which was confusing and wonderful and simultaneously the highlight of his existence and something that made anxiety for the future curl up in his stomach. He knew that Crowley had loved him for a long time. Aziraphale had always been the one to say no and turn his back, and he was fairly sure that if he did it again, even accidentally, he would lose Crowley forever. That was no longer an option he could live with. He wanted to shower Crowley with all the love he had saved up for the last century or two, give or take, but he was terrified of doing or saying something hurtful unawares. 

Expecting Crowley to want to walk back into Heaven would be hurtful. What if he suggested it and Crowley took it badly and pushed him away? No more dinners out, no more strolls through the park, no more nights in the bookshop, no more kissing. And Aziraphale was really liking the kissing.**

**In fact, the toast he had been making burned to a crisp while Aziraphale lost about ten minutes of time at this point in his thought process, and it took a bit of forcing to get his thoughts back on a productive track.

Aziraphale didn’t like Heaven himself, but there really wasn’t an alternative, was there? The way Hell treated Crowley had always been a sore spot with him. He was a nervous wreck every time Crowley was called Downstairs. Obviously, he wasn’t going to let Crowley go back to Hell alone…

_Would you Fall for him?_ His brain asked insistently. His brain asked that insistently a lot; not even Armageddon had stopped it. But he was almost sure the answer was yes. No, not almost. He was sure. It was just too terrifying to look at head on before his first cup of tea.

Aziraphale could be very clever, especially at compartmentalizing his thoughts, but they were running on several levels at once. He was calculating how they might be able to keep Earth a going concern forever.**

**Step one: make Crowley stop trying to create advanced artificial intelligences when he got disgusted looking at “dank memes” online.

He was also trying to figure out how to convince Crowley that he was committed to him and wasn’t going anywhere without him. Also, were he and Crowley emissaries of Earth now? If so, should they expect other angels and demons to pop in for negotiations? Would they get more respect if they made that a more formal process? Also, was there anything in Agnes Nutter’s Prophecies about this? Also also, what should the next step be after kissing and cuddling, and how soon that was likely to happen?**

**The egg sandwiches were entirely ruined. 

When the flies infiltrated the kitchen, Aziraphale was barely surprised. He didn’t grab the plant mister. If he was going to get any farther in his speculations, he needed more answers.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he said, resisting the urge to put the kettle back on to offer Beelzebub a cup of Assam.

Beelzebub pulled a stool up to Crowley’s formerly pristine kitchen counter. “We can cut to anything you like, Azzziraphale.”

“And none of that, now.” Aziraphale was only afraid of the reaction he got from one demon – the one sleeping soundly in the bedroom.**

**Aziraphale was never sure whether Crowley slept through this encounter because of Beelzebub’s occult influence or because Crowley was just really, really tired.

He leaned his forearms on the counter and met Beelzebub’s eyes. “Whatever happens, I’m not leaving Crowley.”

“Know thiz, Principality. No matter what happenz, I’m not releasing him.”

“I see.” _Would you Fall for him? You would. After all this, you know you would._

Beelzebub tilted their head as if they were listening to Aziraphale’s thoughts. “I wasn’t lying before. You would have a place of honor in Hell. We could use your skillz.”

“I’m sure. My skills. Nothing at all to do with recruiting the first angel since the Celestial War.”

“Are you interested in being recruited?”

“I’ve heard every possible argument from Crowley over the course of 6000 years, and none of them worked. I doubt you could come up with anything more effective.”

“Yesss, your faith in Heaven iz unshakeable,” Beelzebub said in a mocking voice.

Aziraphale sighed. “Speaking of which, how does Gabriel figure into this?”

Beelzebub sat up straight and narrowed their eyes. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question.” Although gauging from that reaction, perhaps it wasn’t. “You and Gabriel obviously came here together.”

They shrugged. “He’z useful. And he wasn’t lying either. He’d love to poach the Serpent of Eden while keeping the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. What a coup for him.”

“Ah. You expect me to believe this is a friendly competition.”

Beelzebub laughed. It was an ugly sound, one that made Aziraphale listen for the noises of Crowley’s sleep being disturbed.**

**Beelzebub’s laughter made the fuses in the kitchen blow, but since Aziraphale and Crowley had never bothered to understand how fuses worked, they weren’t actually necessary. The evil sound also caused a young couple in an adjoining flat to have a flaming row instead of incredible morning sex, and an older couple downstairs to change their routine in exactly the opposite way.

“We’re both interested,” Beelzebub said, “but you and I know that I can make the better offer.”

Aziraphale sat on a stool. “Go ahead then. Make your offer that’s better than Heaven.”

“He waz willing to sacrifice everything for you.” Beelzebub raised an eyebrow. “What have you ever sacrificed for him?”

Aziraphale’s breath was knocked out of him. He hadn’t thought he was underestimating the Lord of the Flies, but he was wrong. Beelzebub reached out and gently placed one index finger under Aziraphale’s chin, examining his face.

“Do you know how we tortured him every time we caught him being _nice_ to you? I’m surprised you couldn’t hear the screamz from your pretty little bookshop.”

Aziraphale struggled to hold back the flowing righteousness threatening to escape him and envelop the kitchen in a glow. He managed to keep his voice steady. “You couldn’t have caught him too often. We got away with finding the Antichrist together.”

“I gave him a little leeway, hoping he’d convince you to take the kind of riskz he waz willing to take. But you didn’t, did you?”

“You’re very good at this,” Aziraphale admitted. “Why do you think this will convince me?”

Beelzebub’s mouth puckered as if smelling something long past its sell-by date. “He tried to get you away from Heaven’z vengeance, didn’t he? I find that noble.”

The word ‘noble’ was so surprising, it tampered some of Aziraphale’s angelic wrath. “What do you mean?”

“He helped you become immune to hellfire.”

“Yes, I find that very noble, too.” So there was quite a bit Beelzebub didn’t know. That was a relief.

“Here’z my proposal, Azziraphale. You come down to Hell with me for 72 hourz.”

“Why 72 hours?”

“That’z an Earth month, I believe.”

“Oh, yes, very good,” Aziraphale said. 

“I’ll show you our library. I understand you and Crowley had a thing for sending uz writerz.”

“Well, no, that wasn’t what I intended, but writers are very hard to keep out of Hell.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Crowley told me you only allow them to write about pain, so their new works are all a bit repetitive.”

“I want you to reorder the shelvez based on your superior knowledge of humanz. I’m sure Dagon won’t mind.”

“Oh, no, why would she?” Aziraphale had a very clear memory of being in Hell and staring at Dagon’s razor sharp and numerous fangs.

Beelzebub blew out a breath. “The point iz, Crowley’z never going to believe that you’d really sacrifice for him. You have to prove it. Unlezz you don’t care what happenz to him after all.”

Crowley had always taken an interest in astronomy, so Aziraphale had purchased all of the interesting astronomical books he came across. As a result, he knew of about 10 ways the world could end even if humanity didn’t destroy it. Wandering black holes, rogue planets, gamma ray bursts. The cosmos was a hostile place, and it seemed more hostile all the time.**

**That was mostly Beelzebub’s aura affecting him. Beelzebub was indeed very good at this.

It was not acceptable for Crowley to be in Hell alone. They wouldn’t torture him, they’d destroy him. In exchange for a chance to stop that from happening, Aziraphale would do anything.

He sipped his tea, trying to convey that he hadn’t already made his decision. “You know, humanity could fool you. They could last a very, very long time.”

“Not az long az we will, angel.”

Aziraphale flinched at hearing the pet name coming from Beelzebub. “A lot could change before the world ends.”

Beelzebub barked a short laugh. “Heaven and Hell don’t change. Angelz and demonz don’t change.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Can I offer you a cup of tea or coffee? Crowley and I have found that caffeine—”

“Fine, point made,” Beelzebub said. “But you two only changed because you were stationed on Earth for so long.”

“So you won’t risk sending anyone else here to replace us?”

“That decision haz yet to be made.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded. “You’re getting the silent treatment from Satan, and you don’t know what’s going to happen next. Because you don’t know the ineffable plan.”

Beelzebub’s expression of superiority was impressive. “Maybe the fate of a couple of traitorz isn’t important enough for Satan to care.”

Maybe? More like definitely. But Aziraphale cared too much about the fate of one of those traitors to take any chances.

“Draw up the contract,” he said. He knew Beezlebub; there’d have to be a contract. He didn’t have much hope of negotiating a favorable one.

The flies swirled in a spiral as Beelzebub snapped their fingers and disappeared through the floor.

Aziraphale’s vision grew blurry and his throat tightened. He had to wake Crowley and tell him what had happened, and he knew Crowley wasn’t going to like it. They were probably going to argue. If he so much as alluded to being willing to Fall, Crowley would panic. Damn that Beelzebub. If Aziraphale could find a way to get back at them …

But no, he and Crowley were too vulnerable, too weak. Even inseparable, they were too alone. But maybe he could tell Crowley later, after their American holiday. That seemed reasonable. There was no call to ruin their first vacation.

Huh, perhaps he had gone native. Here he was procrastinating his well-earned trip to Hell by deciding not to think about it, just like a human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm American, so please feel free to point out where my non-Britishness shines through! I couldn't resist one chapter in America - that will be the next chapter coming up.


	6. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An American holiday is interrupted by the Messenger of Heaven. Don’t you hate it when that happens?

The entire trip was inadvisably premature. Harriet and Warlock Dowling had barely landed in the States when they got a call from Nanny asking if she could stop by for a visit. Crowley had been genuinely surprised they both sounded as if they were looking forward to it. 

“I don’t know why that surprises you, dear,” Aziraphale said while packing his old-fashioned tweed suitcase.**

**Crowley enjoyed watching Aziraphale pack a suitcase more than he would let on. The list of books to bring amused him the most, especially since a) Aziraphale would never pack anything valuable for fear of losing it, so he would’ve been better off with the Kindle Crowley kept trying to get him to adopt, and b) Crowley knew the angel would buy new books in America so he could criticize (or actually criticise) the spelling. Crowley preferred the z’s because they looked cooler.

“Warlock loved you without reservation, and I know you felt the same way toward him.”

“You don’t know any such thing,” Crowley growled. 

It was that word again. Aziraphale kept using it. Just that morning, Aziraphale had wanted to take a last walk in the park before they left, and he had been going on and on about how he loved St. James at this time of the year, and didn’t Crowley love the way the trees displayed their darkest green, shadiest leaves in the summer, and Crowley had snapped and told him to shush. Aziraphale had looked so hurt, Crowley had wanted to claw his own eyes out. Worse, Crowley completely agreed about the trees, so that made him feel even more like clawing things.**

** Clawing was a good fallback for a demon who felt dramatic, but Crowley rarely followed through since that time in the 1980s Aziraphale had a made a “helpful” comment about buying a scratching post for the bookshop.

Instead, Crowley prowled a circumscribed path around the bookshelves, through Aziraphale’s kitchen and back room, outside to check the Bentley and stare down suspicious passerby through his glasses, and back into the bookshop. A drive would make him feel better, but he was too reluctant to let Aziraphale out of his sight. Aziraphale didn’t like to arrive at the airport before the scheduled flight time because he needed to check and double check and triple check his wards and his answering machine and the off switch on his electric kettle. No amount of talking could convince him that he was inconveniencing other people by showing up at the airport so late. It almost made Crowley nostalgic for the days when he could write off inconveniencing other people on his reports and call it a job well done. Now, it was just annoying.

“Do you know what I’m going to do in America?” Aziraphale said while Crowley paced around him in a shrinking circle. “I’m going to get one of those absurd American Bloody Marys that have crab claws and scallops wrapped in bacon on a stick as garnishes.”

“That will be our first breakfast,” Crowley said, cheering up a little, which was probably the intent. Once Aziraphale was in the car, he felt even more at ease. Driving to the airport was one of his favorite activities.**

**Although he always drove like the proverbial bat out of Hell, something magical about “I have to get to the airport” gave the Bentley’s engine an extra kick. After all, everyone knows that you can’t be faulted for speeding when you’re trying to catch a flight.

When they parked in front of the terminal, though, Aziraphale didn’t take his customary time to performatively recover. He grabbed his luggage from the boot and muttered to himself, and not about Crowley’s driving. Instead, he said under his breath, “Just concentrate on having a wonderful holiday.”

Crowley took the suitcase out of his hands. “Is there something bothering you?” 

“What?” Aziraphale startled, filling Crowley with suspicion. “No, no, not at all. I just want you to love everything about this trip.”

Crowley growled again. Judging by Aziraphale’s disappointed pout, he didn’t realize he was winding Crowley up. He swung the suitcase in wide arcs, half hoping to run into a demon he could punt across the terminal with it.

“Do you know, I was reading about hotel rooms, and I thought there was this new concept that sounded interesting,” Aziraphale said. “It’s called a Jacuzzi tub. It sounds a bit Roman. We should try that.”

Irritation forgotten, Crowley dropped the suitcase, took out his phone, and immediately made the arrangements.**

** Every hotel in Washington DC had their room bookings frozen for 30 minutes and the city’s internet crashed, but half the town blamed conservative corruption, 40% of the city blamed liberal overregulation, and 9% of the city blamed lizardmen from another planet, with the remaining 1% pretty sure it had to do with the Kardashians. Only one Saudi princeling lost his suite, so all’s well that ends well.

After that, momentum turned in their favor, and the trip was much more fun. They flew first class, of course. Within the hour, Aziraphale knew their flight attendant’s life story and had encouraged her to mend fences with her sister, resulting in them getting the excellent customer service only Aziraphale managed to get. They arrived in early evening local time and bypassed American security at the airport.** 

**He and Aziraphale had never sorted out whether passports were an unnecessary evil or an aid to global peace and understanding, but Crowley claimed credit for them on a report anyway. “Passports,” he wrote, copying from the first book he found in the bookshop, “are an intermittently relapsing inflammatory disease with a pathogenesis in aberrant T-cell function.” It wasn’t as if anyone read the blessed things, and especially not if they had long words.

The hotel suite was overly opulent, including the Jacuzzi tub. It was probably supposed to look like Caligula’s palace with all the white marble and gilt inlays. Fortunately, Caligula’s palace had looked nothing like that – they both had bad memories of the place. Crowley got bored again as Aziraphale unpacked and asked if there was anything he could get from downstairs.

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “This is absolutely perfect. I just want to make sure everything is absolutely, well, perfect.”

“Hmmph,” Crowley said, and announced he was going to the bar off the lobby for a bottle of something to bring back to the suite. It felt like Aziraphale was keeping something from him, but it maybe it was only Aziraphale being anxious about travelling. He’d always been so attached to London, even when the place itched under Crowley’s skin. 

They were both so used to keeping things from each other, it was hard to tell what it felt like when Aziraphale wasn’t keeping something from him. Anyway, the most likely cause of any awkwardness between them had to be Crowley himself. If he could just return all the lovely sentiments Aziraphale was willing to give him now. Picture that, it took the end of the world for Aziraphale to admit his love, and Crowley _still_ hadn’t said it back.

As soon as he stepped from the lift into the lobby, he could tell something else was wrong. The clerks behind the front desk were smiling and cheerful, the bellboys polite and focused on their tasks, and the guests checking in were patient and contented and even well-dressed. Lovely orchestral music played in the background instead of a 24-hour news channel. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. This wasn’t any American city that could exist on this plane of reality.**

**There were kids in the lobby, and they were standing with perfect posture and no fidgeting, ignoring their phones in order to listen to their parents. It was like something out of a Stephen King movie.

It was worse in the bar. Nobody made condescending gestures to the bartender, nobody complained about the televisions showing a baseball game, and men observed the unspoken rules of personal space when talking to women. He decided the best course of action was to go back upstairs and get Aziraphale, who would never respond to his texts and had probably lost his phone in the suite already.**

**Actually, he’d left it in the bookshop because he assumed British mobile phones didn’t work in America. 

“Crowley!” he heard from a booth behind him. That prat Gabriel’s stupidly famous voice made his name sound like song lyrics. He hated that voice so much.

Gabriel wore an impeccably white suit that should have looked out of place but did not. He had a martini glass in front of him but didn’t try to drink from it. Instead, he motioned for Crowley to sit across the table from him.

“I think I’ll stand,” Crowley said, leaning an elbow on the bar.

Gabriel stood, martini in hand, and joined Crowley at the bar, putting his back to it and surveying the room. Crowley was not happy to realize Gabriel looked a lot like a young Sean Connery.

“On second thought,” Crowley said, and he took the booth seat Gabriel had just vacated.

Gabriel sat across from him. “That’s just a little childish, don’t you think?”

“Nah. Maybe I feel like standing up again.” But he didn’t, because he didn’t want Gabriel to realize the only weapon currently at his disposal was minor annoyance. “What do you want?”

Gabriel smiled, his perfect teeth looking so punchable. “How’s Aziraphale?”

“’Oooh, how’s Aziraphale?’” he mimicked. “When have you ever cared?”

“That’s not fair. I’ve always cared very deeply about Aziraphale. I’ve always worried about him.” Gabriel had the nerve to adopt a fatherly expression. “I know Earth was a lonely assignment.”

Right, next came ‘poor Aziraphale left with only a demon to talk to.’ Crowley made a reeling motion with his hand. “Speed it up. I have more important things to do.”

“You do?”

“I’m on holiday.”

Gabriel stared blankly, refusing to admit he didn’t know what that meant. Crowley pounded the table with the heel of his hand. “Get on with it.”

“I’m just checking on Aziraphale. We miss him.”

“See, I thought you wanted to kill him for preventing Armageddon.”

“Well,” Gabriel said, “I’m very glad we didn’t kill him. Aren’t you?”

Crowley scowled at him. What a bastard.

Gabriel continued. “The thing about being an angel – now, you wouldn’t know this, but the thing is that we can sense love. We thrive on it. Love and peace and harmony.” He glanced around the bar. “You don’t get much of that on Earth.”

Crowley deepened the scowl, really furrowed his forehead and clenched his teeth, in case Gabriel wasn’t seeing it.

Gabriel shrugged one shoulder. “I needed to see how Aziraphale was getting by without love. And it would have been awkward for me to approach him myself.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

The question was sarcastic, but Gabriel played it straight. “Our last few meetings didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked.”

“What, no harmony?” Crowley went to leave, but Gabriel put a hand on his forearm. It was a light, gentle touch, but it had the weight of all the Archangels behind it, and it kept his arm pinned in place. Crowley had underestimated the Messenger of God. This conversation was obviously going to last as long as Gabriel wanted.

“I’m not going to help you apologize to Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “You’re on your own there.”

“Apologize? Why would I do that?”

Oh, for the love of Satan. “Wha - Don’t you think you owe him an apology?”

Some fleeting emotion passed over Gabriel’s face like darting gobies, slippery and hard to catch, but Crowley would have sworn it was anger. When Gabriel spoke again, though, his angelic aura shone just below the notice of the other bar patrons. “I’m not saying he didn’t do anything wrong. But I am all about forgiveness. True forgiveness, Crawly. I wish you could imagine what that’s like.”

Crowley felt his eye teeth extend into fangs. “Maybe he won’t accept your forgiveness.”

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s part of the heavenly host, imbued with God’s grace. You’ve heard of God’s grace? It was stripped from you when you Fell?”

“Eh, I might have some memory of that event.” Stupid. Thickheaded. Bastard.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen to Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “Would we?”

Rage blossomed in front of his eyes like red explosions clouding his vision. Crowley concentrated very hard on not flipping the table.

Gabriel sighed. “It’s a shame you don’t understand what I mean. It’s a shame you demons aren’t capable of love.”

“What do you want?” Crowley snarled.

“But you’re different from the run of the mill demon, aren’t you? It’s not like you go slithering around showing humans your scales.” Gabriel leaned closer, like a conspirator. “You know, Michael and Uriel think Aziraphale has tamed you.”

Crowley said nothing. With great restraint, he resisted hissing and shooting his forked tongue in Gabriel’s face. Because he knew that he had the moral high ground in this conversation. For all of Gabriel’s pretty words, Crowley had saved Aziraphale when Gabriel would have destroyed him. 

“Yes,” Gabriel said, warming to his topic. “You go to the theater, to the orchestra, you drink fine wine, you take him to special restaurants. He’s spent millennia molding you to be what he wanted, and it almost worked.”

 _Not almost_ , Crowley thought but didn’t say out loud. He knew he had spent his life on Earth making himself into someone Aziraphale might love. He didn’t need to give Gabriel the satisfaction.**

**Crowley had temporarily forgotten it had been a two-way molding, and he had introduced Aziraphale to the music and the wine. It was the Sean Connery thing making him feel insecure. Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan, even Daniel Craig he could have handled. Well, maybe not Roger Moore.

“Have you told him that you love him?”

Ah, there was the killing blow.

“Oh, that’s right, you can’t. You’re a demon.”

Crowley felt his throat working and tried to hold onto the rapidly dissolving feeling of having the moral high ground.**

**Beelzebub may have been good at inducing despair, but they had nothing on Gabriel’s almost unconscious ability to convincingly sound like he was in the right.

“I wasn’t sure until now. I wasn’t sure you still _are_ a demon.” Gabriel looked at the floor significantly. “Beelzebub is supposed to be working that out, but you know how they are.”

“Yeah – I mean – what?”

“They’ll get back to me in their own time while expecting me to hurry up with what I have to do, as if they’re in charge of timetables,” Gabriel complained.

“Uh, okay?” So Gabriel and Beelzebub were working together. That meant Crowley and Aziraphale were punching way out of their weight class. 

“That’s probably not important,” Gabriel said. “We were talking about you, weren’t we? Specifically, all that Aziraphale gave up for you.”

“No, we weren’t.”

It was as if Crowley hadn’t spoken at all. For the millionth time, he reflected that Gabriel had been a miserable person to work for.**

**Not that Gabriel realized Crowley had ever worked for him. 

“God’s grace, his position in the angelic hierarchy, his home, his hope of eternal salvation.” Gabriel counted them off on his fingers.

“To save the world,” Crowley said stubbornly.

He was again ignored. “But there may still be a slim chance of preventing Aziraphale from Falling.”

Shit, here it was. “Listen, Gabe, I’ve been tempting people for thousands of years. You’re doing it wrong. This is too much foreplay. Just, you know, get to business already.”

Gabriel’s smile appeared to be nailed to his face. “Right. Serpent of Eden. Well, if you can be forgiven, there’s hope for everyone.”

“I have all the forgiveness I want, thanks.”

“When the world ends, Aziraphale isn’t going to let you go to Hell by yourself, is he?”

“Maybe we have other plans.” If only Alpha Centauri counted as a plan rather than an act of desperation.

“What if you could go to Heaven with him instead?”

“I wouldn’t let him go there alone, not after what you bastards did last time.”

“I can’t make you any promises,” Gabriel said, “but what about a trial run? Say, 72 hours in Heaven to see if you’re accepted there.”

“I don’t want to be accepted there,” Crowley said. “It must not be that great if I left the first chance I got, you know?”

“But if you were accepted there, if God didn’t reject you, then you’d have some of Her grace back. You wouldn’t be unforgivable anymore.” Gabriel tapped the rim of his martini glass, which, against every rule of physics, made a pretty ting noise. “You could love and be loved. And, of course, Aziraphale would no longer be risking damnation … doing whatever he does with you.”

Crowley knew he shouldn’t press his luck, but who was he to resist the urge? “What do you imagine Aziraphale does with me?”

Gabriel’s lip curled. “Never mind that. Should I pull strings for you, set up a short holiday for you in Heaven to see how it goes?”

Bless it, he had known all along what holiday meant. “I’m not sure I trust you.”

“Crawly, please. You don’t think I know you expect a contract? You’re a demon.”

“Yes, I know that, you wanker,” he spit out through a clenched jaw.

“Alright, there’s no need for name calling,” Gabriel said, against all evidence to the contrary. “You and Aziraphale enjoy your travels. I’ll have the contract drawn up and we’ll reconvene in London when it’s ready.”

Crowley didn’t want to go to Heaven. He wanted to throw Gabriel’s offer back in his face. But he’d be a fool to think Aziraphale didn’t want Heaven’s forgiveness. Even though they had treated him badly, it was still his home. As for Aziraphale Falling, that wasn’t something Crowley could ever allow to happen if there was any chance he could prevent it.

“Ugh, fine,” he said. He felt the pressure holding him to the booth subside as soon as he voiced his agreement. “If you can’t find me there, I’m sure Beelzebub can tell you where I am.”

Gabriel was saying something condescending, but Crowley fled to the lift bank.**

**He sauntered to the lifts to make it look like it wasn’t fleeing, but it was.

When Crowley finally made it back to their suite, Aziraphale was threading his fingers together nervously and his fluffy hair was sticking up in several directions. “Where in the world have you been?” he said, and the air crackled as he tried to reel back his angelic righteousness.

“Gabriel was waiting for me in the lobby. We need to talk, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face drained of color and he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hung in defeat. “I thought we’d have more time.”

Crowley sat next to him. “I know, me too.”

“What did he want?”

“He’s drawing up a contract to take me to Heaven for 72 hours.”

Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears. “I should have known. Beelzebub’s drawing up a contract for me.”

Crowley sprang up. “What? When?”

“I’m so sorry, dear. I know I should have told you. I intended to tell you right after our holiday.” He sniffled. “You deserved a few days to do your favorite things. I just wanted to give you that before…”

Crowley swallowed down his resentment. He had known all along that the visit to see Warlock was Aziraphale’s way of giving him a gift. Even so, in the lift on the way up, he had seriously considered not telling Aziraphale about the contract. If Aziraphale had been engrossed in a book when he came in, he might have kept Gabriel’s visit to himself. Old habits died hard.

He sat next to Aziraphale again and squeezed his hand. “It’s alright. But no more secrets. We can’t do that anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You’re right. No more secrets. If Gabriel and Beelzebub are in league against us, we’ll have to be on our toes all the time.” 

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.” Until the day came that they didn’t. _You’re not Falling on my account, not if I can help it_.

Aziraphale’s blue eyes took on a hint of gray steel. “I can’t believe they couldn’t leave us alone after we came to an entirely different continent.”

“Why would that stop them? Heaven and Hell aren’t exactly big on privacy.”

Aziraphale leaned back to lie down on the bed, still holding Crowley’s hand. “Well, I am.”

Crowley lied down next to him. “Oh, me, too, angel.”

They were quiet for a bit, catching their breath. Crowley miracled the lights down before he took off his glasses and tucked them into his jacket. That was another thing to get used to. Staring at Aziraphale with his glasses off felt vulnerable and open, but not in a bad way. It was more like whatever was inside him was just maybe acceptable to be seen.

“I’m sorry if I’m rushing through everything,” Aziraphale said carefully. “Holidays and … and everything.”

Ironic that he was asking Crowley if he was going too fast. Crowley was trying hard to accept Aziraphale’s tenderness, he really was. 

“I can feel them breathing down my neck, too,” Crowley said. “Probably not a lot of time to waste, right?”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was so soft and so beautiful that it made Crowley’s chest hurt. This would be the perfect time to tell him how he felt and stop Aziraphale from slowing things down. Right now, before something else terrible happened. He tried yet again to force the words out, but all he came out with was a strangled sound.

“You’re so good to me,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Better than I deserve, really.”

The stranglehold on Crowley’s throat intensified. It didn’t let up until Aziraphale leaned over him and gave him a soft, gentle kiss on the lips.

This was Heaven. Crowley wanted to stay here, not go to the domain of the Archangels by himself. But he didn’t see that he had any other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Gabriel's POV of the signing of contracts. These chapters were so fun to write. Thanks so much for your kudos!


	7. Sort Out These Demons With Some Formal Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel has a run-in with Michael and with his conscience. Metatron speaks. Contracts are created and signed, and that shouldn’t require a formal meeting. It’s not going into the _Celestial Observer_. Ever.

How hard could it be to draw up a contract for a demon? 

Gabriel stared at the parchment in front of him. Was there anything as daunting as the blank page? He wondered if it would be easier if he used a laptop, but he thought there was something visceral about old-fashioned linen parchment and a white, angel-feather quill that would inspire him.**

** Aziraphale once filed an overly enthusiastic 17-page report about the virtues of the modern ballpoint pen, which would’ve been extremely helpful if Gabriel had ever read it. In this case, though, it’s hard to fault him for passing the report over to Beelzebub as a “possible torture object.”

Gabriel wasn’t even sure which version of the demon’s name he should use, and that was the easiest aspect of Beelzebub’s plan, which was striking him more and more as a terrible plan that required Gabriel to do all the hard work. All Beelz had to do was keep Aziraphale away from Crowley. How hard could that be? Unfortunately, when he’d brought it up in their last call, Beelzebub laughed and said Gabriel had failed at exactly that for a few thousand years. That particular sword cut both ways, but naturally, when Gabriel pointed that out, Beelzebub hung up on him. So he couldn’t exactly call back and ask for help drafting a simple contract.

Only it wasn’t so simple. Demons were experienced at parsing contracts, and Hell’s emissary to the humans would be better at it than most. The heart of the matter was getting him to Heaven. Gabriel needed Crowley in an environment where he could control him if he had any chance to getting the serpent to drink the Lethe River water. Crowley wouldn’t erase his memories of Aziraphale voluntarily, even though it would solve so many problems for everybody else. Demons didn’t worry about what was convenient for other beings. Getting a demon to take any kind of water offered by an angel would be very tricky indeed. Gabriel didn’t entertain the thought that he might be able to trick Crowley into drinking the water of forgetfulness on Earth. That was Crowley’s environment, and with every visit, Gabriel found the place more confusing. If he could’ve outmaneuvered Crowley on Earth, he wouldn’t have needed Aziraphale, and the apocalypse would’ve gone as planned. 

And how was he going to hide Crowley up in Heaven? Nothing could be hidden here – nothing should need to be hidden. 

He was thankful when Michael stuck her head in his office and interrupted his useless musing. 

“Michael, come on in! It’s lovely to see you.”

“Thank you.” Although Michael had approached him, she seemed less than pleased about it. She worried her gold-tinted bottom lip with her teeth, her gaze focused on the floor. 

“Please, come in and sit down,” Gabriel tried to sound welcoming. “I could use your input right now, actually.”

He wasn’t Michael’s supervisor. They were both Archangels of equal rank, but they’d gravitated toward the tasks that befitted the talents God gave them. Gabriel, Messenger of God and Revealer of Mysteries, had always enjoyed communicating with other beings in person and convincing everyone to work together on a coordinated plan of action. He couldn’t remember a time he had wanted to be alone – it wasn’t in his nature. Even in the hazy, soupy, not-quite-memories he could conjure of the time before the Celestial War, he never felt he’d been alone, which might’ve been why he was seized with the sudden need to have Michael on his side.**

** It may also have been why, when the lonely mantle of leadership descended upon him in the wake of the Antipocalpyse, he got caught up in Beelzebub’s plans.

Michael, Guardian of the Faith and Angel of Mercy, was more introverted. She took on the difficult duty of handling their back channel to Hell because she could be trusted as a Guardian not to be tempted by Lucifer’s plans. She’d personally taken him down in the War, after all. She was also thoughtful, kept her own council, and didn’t crave approval. She was much better suited to carrying out a secret plan to restart Armageddon than him, in Gabriel’s opinion. 

Today, characteristically, she had her own agenda.

“I’d like to ask you about Aziraphale’s failed execution,” she said.

“Oh.” He put down the quill. It sounded like it would be a while before he’d be able to pick it up again. “I’m glad we kept that hush hush. I’ll bet Hell is regretting Crowley’s trial about now.”

Michael gripped her chair’s armrests and leaned forward. “What happened in Hell was wrong.”

“It usually is.”

“You don’t understand.” Michael’s eyes glowed with an intensity Gabriel hadn’t seen since she’d stopped Abraham from sacrificing his son. “We never should’ve tried to kill Crowley.”

A creeping fear Gabriel couldn’t identify made his corporation shiver. “You … you mean you should’ve used something other than holy water?”

“It wasn’t our place to punish him. I knew it as soon as I looked into his eyes—”

“Through his shaded glasses, you mean?”

“No, his eyes. It was a very strong feeling that he was derived from angelic stock, made by God Herself, and only able to be undone by God Herself.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Which you felt when you looked at his serpent eyes.”

“I’m not imagining this, Gabriel.”

“Hmm, I didn’t say you were.” He leaned back in his chair. “What did you want to ask me about Aziraphale?”

“Did the same thing happen?” Her expression was open and earnest.

“No,” Gabriel said with confidence. “I didn’t feel anything like that. Aziraphale knew the hellfire wouldn’t harm him, though.” He shuddered so Michael could see it. “Nothing angelic feeling about that.”

“Uriel said the same thing. But Aziraphale couldn’t have known beforehand,” she said. “Maybe his confidence came from God’s grace.”

Gabriel noted to himself that Michael had been talking to Uriel but decided to say nothing about it. “Or maybe his partnership with the demon Crowley over a few thousand years made him immune. Maybe his confidence came from Satan rather than God.”

“I asked the Metatron. All he would tell me was that Aziraphale didn’t belong to Hell.”

Well, that was annoyingly vague. Typical. “So you don’t think Aziraphale or Crowley should be punished?” he asked.

Michael pursed her lips. “I didn’t say that. Aziraphale disobeyed us for centuries.” She sighed. “It’s just as you said. He had a partnership with a demon. Obviously, we can’t condone that. But it grieves me that the instruction from the Metatron was so harsh.”

Gabriel clamped his jaw shut. He’d never told Michael that the instruction to execute Aziraphale came from the Metatron, and he wasn’t sure where she’d gotten that idea. She’d probably assumed it. He didn’t think the execution had been too harsh. It hadn’t even been effective. Aziraphale had walked away from it with a goddamn spring in his step. 

“Would you now suggest total forgiveness?” he asked.

Michael nodded. “Eventually. There have to be some consequences for fraternizing with the enemy, but I don’t think they should be permanent.”

There was the problem. Michael was fixated on the wrong crime. “Their executions weren’t ordered due to fraternizing,” he said. “Aziraphale derailed the Great Plan.”

Michael rolled her eyes. “The Great Plan leaves a lot open to interpretation.”

Irritation clouded his mind, and Gabriel had to remind himself to keep his voice steady. He couldn’t afford to show anger if he wanted Michael to help him. “We didn’t order every single angel in Heaven to get ready for battle due to a mistake in interpretation.” 

“Didn’t we?” Michael sounded significantly less friendly. “It’s not as if God handed us a map. Our flowcharts aren’t divinely sanctioned.”

“By definition they _are_ because they came from _us_.” He didn’t realize when he had stood, but he was standing, fists planted on his desk, towering over Michael, until he caught himself and took a deep breath. “Look, the Antichrist walks the Earth. The four horsemen rode. The apocalypse that was foretold—”

“The apocalypse didn’t happen. You can blame Aziraphale for that all you want—”

“I don’t want to blame Aziraphale.” He struggled to keep his wings contained. He wanted to blame Aziraphale so very much. He had never lied to Michael so baldly, and it made him feel smaller, constrained, like a cornered rat.

Michael stood to better meet his eyes. “Nobody believes that Aziraphale and Crowley are capable of stopping God’s will.”

Gabriel forced a smile. “Okay. I get it. If that’s what you and Dagon say—”

“Dagon?” Michael put her hands on her hips. “I’m not talking to demons about this. Where did you get that idea?”

Oh, shit, that had been a mistake. “I’m not accusing you of talking to demons without authorization.”

“I should hope not.”

He sighed loudly. “Look, I’m trying to figure out where we go from here, just like you are. And personally, I think you’re right about forgiveness.” His wings beat invisibly against his shoulder blades, chastising him for lying. “That’s what we’re all about, right? Forgiveness.”

Michael merely nodded.

Gabriel thought he might be sweating and hoped she didn’t notice. “I’ve been meditating on forgiveness myself. You know, I had a radical idea, just spitballing here. But what if we did something tangible to demonstrate how much we value forgiveness?”

“Like what?” Her tone was still too wary.

“Crowley helped stop the apocalypse. We agree on that, at least. Right?” Get her buy-in, that was the important part.

“Right,” she said.

“Now, I’m not saying that was God’s intention. But maybe we should try to prove it one way or the other. Put everybody’s doubts to rest. Agreed?”

“Doubt isn’t comfortable,” she said slowly. “It would be better to have more certainty.”

“Exactly!” He clapped his hands together. “So my idea is, let’s bring the demon Crowley here and see if God accepts his presence or rejects it.”

Michael’s jaw dropped. “Are you mad? You want to bring a demon to Heaven?”

“Not just any demon. The demon who thwarted the apocalypse.”**

** Crowley would’ve been offended to be assigned to the “thwarting” side of things. He preferred to think of it as tempting the apocalypse to bugger off.

Michael was silent for a minute. Gabriel gave her space, but the quiet bothered him. He wanted her to tell him he was a good angel doing the right thing. In reality, he was following Beelzebub’s orders. But that was because he and Beelz were getting God’s Great Plan back on track. How was he supposed to know if he was doing the right thing or the wrong thing? An angel could get in a lot of trouble doing the wrong thing.

“I don’t know, Gabriel,” she finally said. “This is awfully radical.”

“It’s not like we’d keep him up here,” he said quickly. “Just a trial run. A week or so. As a fact-finding experiment to get more data on God’s intentions.”

“There … may be merit in it.” Her posture relaxed, shoulders dropping. “Let me think about it.”

“Good. Great! I’d love to hear what you think.” His heartbeat sped up. Another lie. If he didn’t get out of this conversation soon, his corporation was going to melt.

Michael left. Gabriel counted to ten before darting out of his office and rushing through the open, empty corridors. The whole purpose of the lying and the scheming with Beelzebub was to get Crowley to tempt the Antichrist into claiming his true heritage, renouncing his human father, and kicking off the apocalypse. Because that was God’s will! If it wasn’t, then the last 11 years of his existence had been a cruel joke. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to speak to the Metatron.

In the halls of Heaven’s upper management, there was a conference room set aside for consultations with the Metatron. It had clear walls – no secrecy or privacy in Heaven. But the room was soundproof. God’s words were rare and for Her intended recipient alone.

In the Metatron’s room, he got down on his knees. “I just need to know, Metatron. Please, can you ask Her? Am I following Her will?”

The Metatron didn’t answer right away. Gabriel’s throat closed in panic. But then the clear voice said, “This is straight from Her, Gabriel. I want you to know that this is not from me. So don’t ask me what it means.”

“What? What?”

“She says Aziraphale changed while he lived on Earth.”

He nodded. “Does that mean he drifted away from us?”

The Metatron made a noncommittal humming sound. 

“Right,” Gabriel said, “you don’t know what it means.”

“She says the purpose of linear time is so that things are different from one point to the next. Be an agent of change, Gabriel.”

“Be … what?”

Another long pause. “That’s all She has to say.”

“That’s it? That’s all?” But even this much of a message from Her was an honor. He should be thankful She had deigned to speak to him at all. If only he knew what it meant.

Be an agent of change?

That had to mean he should do something. That the time for internal reflection was over. He needed to change things. She supported his choices. She wanted him to restart Armageddon. 

He stood and brushed off his suit. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I needed that affirmation. Boy, doubt really is uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

The Metatron had nothing to say to that.

Aziraphale and Crowley actually made their own bosses wait until they were done with their vacation.**

** Gabriel preferred American English to British English and would like to get this out of his system: Vacation. Elevator. Trunk of the car. Cell phone. Book store. Pissed off. Yippee-ki-yay.

“I suppose we can’t fire them just yet,” Gabriel told Beelzebub as they waited on the appointed day outside of the bookshop.

“I’m going to fire them into the Sun,” Beelz muttered. “ _They_ made me wait. They made me _wait_. They made _me_ wait.”

Gabriel tried to see through the grimy front window. “What do you suppose they’re doing in there?”

“Let me see Crowley’s contract again,” Beelz said.

“You’re moody.”

Gabriel, on the other hand, was buoyed by the message he’d received from the Metatron. Also, it felt good to get out of the office and stretch his legs. Things were finally moving in the right direction. He smiled at Beelz, who gave him a glare in return that would’ve made a mere mortal faint. Poor Beelz, who had to live without God’s approval because of … well, because of whatever it was they’d done. He added some extra sparkle to his eyes and his aura.

Beelz was practically enraged by it. “Just give me the blessed contract, pretty boy,” they snapped.

Pretty boy? Well, Gabriel could afford to shrug that off, although it had been disrespectful. He was the good-hearted one, and he couldn’t deny that he was pretty. 

He handed over the contract he’d written. Crowley would be allowed in Heaven for 72 hours in a row. He would only be allowed into areas Gabriel permitted. He would not be restrained by holy ropes and would be able to keep his corporation in the form he wished. He would not be attacked with or given holy water or hellfire. At the end of the 72-hour period, he would be returned to the bookshop.

Beelz handed it back. “That workz. He’ll ask for changez, though, on principle.”

“What does a demon do with principles, exactly?”

Beelz shrugged. “I never said he was good at being a demon.” They tilted their head, and the flies rose to examine Gabriel’s face. “You know, I waz … surprized you were able to pull thiz off without help. Getting the other angelz to agree with thiz must’ve been difficult.”

“That was a compliment, wasn’t it?” Gabriel grinned. “I should write this down, it’s a memorable occasion.”

“Shut up, it waz not.” They straightened their jacket. “You’re especially insufferable today.”

“I’m feeling good, Beelz. Looking forward to putting this Aziraphale and Crowley thing behind us. After 6000 years, I’m ready to close the books.”

They tentatively echoed his grin. “Huh. It is a cauze for celebration, isn’t it? No more having to go see what dumb thing Crowley did thiz time interrupting me doing something fun.” **

** Gabriel was afraid to ask.

“No more sorting through hundreds of requests for miracles involving dinner reservations.”

“No more attemptz to liven up Hell with sound systemz and laser lightz.”

“No more 20-page reports that end up being about fictional characters.”

“No more invoicez for clothez marked ‘my azz in this is an immoral act’.”

“I’m just looking forward to a nice, quiet apocalypse,” Gabriel said, feeling the joy that came with cheering up a friend, or infernal counterpart, as the case may be.

Beelz broke eye contact and stared through the display window. “I’m looking forward to uz never meeting again about those screwupz.” 

Oh, right. That hurt a little, like a poke to the chest. But the apocalypse was God’s will. For all Gabriel knew, the next time he saw Beelzebub, it would be face to face on a battlefield, and they’d be trying to kill each other. Funny, he’d never honestly considered smiting Beelzebub. No, that wasn’t completely true. He’d considered it during some tense meetings in the 600s, when Aziraphale and Crowley fell off the map and reappeared in India, and in the 1100s, when Aziraphale and Crowley both managed to get discorporated on the same day, and after that disastrous Spanish Inquisition. But those had just been passing fancies in the heat of negotiations. In all the time they’d spent together, overwhelming Beelzebub with his power never seemed like a real option. He supposed he’d have to get used to the idea.

“Hey, remember that Sputnik thing?” he asked. “How did we leave off?”

“Oh, don’t start that up,” they warned. “I shouldn’t even have to know what a satellite iz. The serpent filez one sentence on the Spanish Inquisition and 12 multiple-page reportz on a piece of space junk.”

“Huh, I was just thinking about the Spanish Inquisition. That was a clusterfuck, wasn’t it?”

They hummed in agreement and went back to studying the books in Aziraphale’s window.**

** These books were designed to repel customers. If Beelzebub had known that, they would’ve been intrigued, but as it was, they had no reason to doubt that a romance novel by Benito Mussolini would be enticing to humans.

“We decided Sputnik was yourz,” they said. “Any time we couldn’t figure it out, I’d let you have the win. I’ve alwayz been too soft with you.”

“You let me?” Aggravation kept his voice clipped. Beelzebub wouldn’t even look at him as they were being insulting. “Are you saying I couldn’t win our negotiations unless you let me?”

“No, I’m saying I could afford to be generouz. When it annoyed Crowley.”

“That’s bullshit, Beelz. You can’t afford to be generous and you never could.” 

Honestly, he’d be glad not to hear their condescension any more. Thousands of years of listening to them preen about being smarter than him. And for what? They were in the same situation he was and no better. Worse – at least Gabriel didn’t have to live in Hell.

They whirled around, flies buzzing loudly. “Stupid reportz and stupid meetingz. Don’t you think it should’ve been clearer? That we shouldn’t have had to guess whether it was ourz or yourz?”

“What are you saying?” But he knew what they were saying. Count on demons to be blasphemous, but this was dangerous territory even for a Prince. “We didn’t guess.”

They exhaled audibly. “Twelve reportz on Sputnik. I just wanted it to end.”

“Well, it’s ending now,” Gabriel said. “All of it.”

“Oh, why don’t you two just kiss already?” The demon Crowley lounged bonelessly against the door frame of the shop, dressed entirely in black, eyebrows fluttering above his glasses. Gabriel’s angelic energy raged through his limbs, lapping at his awareness and ready to overflow. Before he could smite Crowley, Beelzebub laid a hand on his forearm. Right, the plan.

“Crowley!” he said jovially. He couldn’t bring himself to add cordial words to the greeting.

Beelzebub employed their death glare. “You made us wait.” Not for the first time, Gabriel wondered if it was fun to get to be the grouchy one.

“Add it to my tab,” Crowley said without even a bow to his Prince or an incline of the head. This was one demon begging for a memory reboot. He turned his back on Beelzebub, daringly, and waved at them to follow him into the shop. He had something strapped to his back. It was fluorescent orange and neon green with shiny rainbow stickers on it.

“Is that a water gun?” Gabriel asked.

Crowley’s answering smile had fangs in it.**

** Most of the time Gabriel and Beelzebub had waited outside had been taken up by Aziraphale failing to convince Crowley that the KidzPlay Rad Soaker Xtreme on his back wasn’t intimidatingly slick.

Crowley led them through a maze of bookshelves and haphazardly arranged tables. The overwhelming sense of love had somehow grown stronger since Gabriel’s last visit, and it raised bumps on his corporation’s forearms. There was a new semblance of order in the back of the shop, which was cleared of its usual toppling stacks of books and weird bric-a-brac humans tended to hoard. Aziraphale waited in his formal clothes, standing ramrod straight next to a clean table with a pen stand. He had the presence of mind to incline his head to his superiors.

“Welcome to Earth,” he said. He lifted a flowered porcelain plate from the table. It held a pyramid of round, garishly colored objects. “Please, accept our hospitality and help yourself to a macaron.” **

** Aziraphale wanted this to be as formal as the most elaborate human diplomatic meetings in order to set precedence, and had his heart set on a Japanese tea ceremony, until Crowley had said, “Sure, offer Beelzebub liquids, that’ll go over a treat.”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel again found himself at a loss for cordial greetings. “You know I don’t consume gross matter. Relax.”

“Get the stick out of your arze,” Beelz suggested. 

Gabriel probably shouldn’t have laughed, but it was most likely his last time on Earth, so why not indulge himself?

“Fine.” Aziraphale held out his hand. “The contracts?”

Beelzebub handed him a black-edged scroll wrapped with a thin black ribbon tied in a fiendishly intricate knot that Crowley immediately magicked away. Aziraphale took something out of his coat pocket and put it on his face.

“What is that?” Gabriel asked.

“They’re my reading glasses,” Aziraphale said, radiating annoyance. “I’m reading, aren’t I?”

“He’s reading,” Crowley said, arm outstretched. “Oi, Gabe, give it up.”

Gabriel gave Crowley his parchment and glanced at Beelz to share his frustration, but they had grabbed a double handful of macarons and were scarfing them two at a time. Gabriel sat on a nearby couch. This was going to take a while, as Aziraphale and Crowley were passing the contracts between them and pointing at words with significant looks at each other. From the way they understood each other’s gestures and expressions, they had clearly been working together for a long, long time. Funny how that seemed so obvious in retrospect.

“We’ll need to add some clauses,” Crowley said, as Beelz had predicted. “We need our mobile phones with us, that’s not negotiable.” **

** Mobile phone contracts had definitely been invented by Crowley, and he was especially proud of the mobile phone contracts that advertised themselves as being “contract free.”

“Everything’s negotiable,” Gabriel said. “Right, Beelzebub?” **

** He would never say the nickname Beelz in front of Aziraphale and Crowley, or anyone actually. It was a private nickname. His brain’s red flag warning system would’ve been screaming if he possessed one.

Meanwhile, Beelz had their mouth stuffed with pastry. His eyes widened and his pupils dilated. “Mmmm, angel, these are sooo sweet.” 

Crowley’s answering growl felt almost justified.

“I’ll tell you what, I’m a generous guy,” Gabriel said. “You can bring your phone.”

“Why 72 hours?” Crowley asked.

Beelzebub swallowed and licked their lips. “Just a round number. An Earth month sounded sufficient.”

It surprised a laugh out of Gabriel. “72 hours isn’t an Earth month. Where did you get that idea?”

Their eyes glowed with their typical irritation whenever Gabriel knew something they didn’t. “Aziraphale confirmed that it waz.” 

“Well, you can’t trust him, can you? Just because he gives you pastries.”

“It’z a month,” they said firmly.

“72 hours is an Earth week.” Gabriel leaned back and enjoyed his victory.

Beelzebub’s hands curled into fists. “It’z a month.”

Of all the trivial things to be stubborn and arrogant about. And absolutely wrong. “It’s a week.”

They scooped up two macarons and threw them at Gabriel’s chest. He flinched in astonishment. The macarons fell to his lap, leaving a greasy spot on his dove grey trousers. Oh, they had thrown things at him before – they were a demon, after all. But this seemed like the worst of those offenses. Here, fighting in front of the traitors, on their last trip to Earth together.

“Not the raspberry ones!” Aziraphale cried, snatching up the plate.

Crowley wielded a modern ballpoint pen. “I’m adding clauses to both contracts including unlimited use of our mobile phones. And that Beelzebub will not be keeping Aziraphale alone in their office the whole, um, whatever 72 hours are.”

“Right, these aren’t personal contracts,” Aziraphale said with that prissy, exacting tone he liked to adopt. “They’re official contracts between Earth, Heaven, and Hell.”

“No, they’re not,” Gabriel said at the same time as Beelzebub said, “Absolutely not.”

Crowley pulled on Aziraphale’s sleeve, and the traitors stepped between the shelving to discuss things further. 

“This is worse than dealing with Michael,” Gabriel griped, his former pleasant mood completely evaporated. “And how did we not see those two have been conspiring against us for years?”

“You only see what you want to see,” Beelzebub said. “At least that never changez.”

Gabriel tapped his foot on the floor impatiently. “You didn’t see it either, sunshine.”

“You have no idea how glad I am thiz will all be over soon,” Beezlebub said.

“That makes two of us.”

They refused to look at him and continued to chew macarons loudly, mouth open.**

** It shouldn’t be possible to chew a macaron loudly, but Beelzebub had worked hard for the honorific of Hell’s Most Disgusting Chewer and could be a show off.

The traitors returned. “Everything seems to be in order,” Aziraphale said as Crowley laid the contracts on the table. “We added the phone clauses.”

Gabriel expected Beelzebub to argue about that, but they simply stole Aziraphale’s pen before signing their black-edged parchment with their finger, hellfire lighting the dim room. Then Aziraphale found another pen and signed it, and it went up in smoke, on its way to Beelzebub’s office. Crowley cracked his knuckles, stole Aziraphale’s pen, and used his finger to sign his sigil to Gabriel’s pure white parchment.

Before Gabriel got to his feet, Beelzebub snapped their fingers, and they and Aziraphale began to sink into the ground. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale said.

“Wait!” Crowley said. He leaped to where Aziraphale had been standing, but he and Beelzebub were gone in an eye’s blink. “Aziraphale!”

“You’re pathetic,” Gabriel said. “What, are you sad you didn’t get to kiss him goodbye? What kind of demon are you?” He signed the contract with a heavy hand, ripping the delicate paper. “Could you imagine Beelzebub acting like they’d miss someone?”

Although Crowley’s eyes remained covered, his seething was obvious, and it lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees. “I will never forget anything you’ve done to him, Gabriel.”

“We’ll see about that,” Gabriel said, “won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from the song San Narcisco from Faded Paper Figures, a great addition to any Gomens playlist. The romance novel by Mussolini is a real thing: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4102540-the-cardinal-s-mistress.


	8. The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell is full of backstabbing fiends (and one verbose angel), but for once, that’s not an attractive feature. 
> 
> “Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.” – Dante Alighieri

Beelzebub strode through the lesser corridors of Hell, the ones populated with only low-level demons and a fug that hadn’t evolved yet from frat-house-bathroom scent. Their flies toned down their usual buzzing. The plan to wipe Crowley’s memory was going better than expected, and they couldn’t be angrier about it. Somehow, Gabriel was able to make progress where they couldn’t. Although it shouldn’t matter who got the credit—

Oh, why bother pretending? Of course they wanted all the credit for the apocalypse.

Gabriel had drafted a contract to bring Crowley to Heaven, where the other angels would see him, without asking for Beelzebub’s help. They’d been sure Gabriel would need their craftiness to convince the other angels to go along. Meanwhile, they had no allies among their brethren and were reduced to sneaking into Hell the back way with Aziraphale. Gabriel hadn’t bothered to ask if Beelzebub had gotten the other demons to agree to host Aziraphale. Usually, Gabriel noticed when they left out their problems with Hell’s bureaucracy because Heaven’s was so similar. **

** When Hell had been founded, nobody wanted to reinvent the wheel, excepting the Vehicular Tortures department, who recommended more spikes.

Gabriel hadn’t noticed. Gabriel hadn’t cared. Beelzebub shouldn’t care that the idiot didn’t care, but if the idiot was going to reset Crowley while they struggled merely to provide cover, it wasn’t going to look good in the final accounting, was it?

The traitor angel wasn’t improving their mood. This should’ve been a triumph, having Aziraphale in Hell, but he wasn’t wrathful or crushed with despair. He wasn’t craning his neck looking for a way out amongst the horrors. He was pouting. Who pouted in Hell other than humans?**

** Certain specialized succubae, and lately Hastur.

“I seem to recall you couldn’t wait to get me down here,” Aziraphale complained. “What became of putting me to work in the library and showing me the exalted position that was going to convince me to join your team?”

Satan’s elbow, he was long-winded. But they might as well bring him to the library. With any luck, Dagon would be in their office waiting to backstab them there.

That would’ve been too easy. Dagon was in the library, using her mobile phone. As Beelzebub entered, she quickly hid the phone in a pocket.**

** You don’t want to know what the pocket was in.

Then her eyes lit up. “The Principality. He Fell.”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale smiled pleasantly at Dagon, making him the first. “This is a cultural exchange between Earth, Heaven, and—”

“He hasn’t Fallen permanently, just hard enough to talk nonsense,” Beelzebub said. A cultural exchange! Someone was going to have to watch the angel full time and make sure he didn’t leave the library. Otherwise, he’d be telling everyone he had diplomatic immunity.

Their flies surrounded a book-hungry earwig crawling across a nearby reading table.**

** This being Hell, the table was two feet high and covered in something sticky. Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire it.

Beelzebub reached down and scooped up the earwig. “Fetch me Hastur.” They put the earwig on the ground, and it scrabbled away.

Aziraphale was rotating in a circle, taking in Dagon’s library. The room didn’t conform to earthly standards of physics, and in theory, its dimensions were limitless. In practice, a vicious and well-tended turf battle between Beelzebub and Dagon on one side and Mammon and his tech bros on the other side kept the library from expanding indefinitely. It was still an impressive place, designed to look like a dank grotto with dripping stalactites and a channel filled with pitch-black water and eyeless, albino, fishlike things. Dagon had to have water everywhere; just for once, Beelzebub wanted to go someplace dry.**

** Adding insult to injury, every time in the last few centuries they’d been dragged to Earth, they had to go to Great Britain. They felt that should’ve been read out as a crime at Crowley’s trial.

The angel made a humming sound. “This is lovely, isn’t it?”

Dagon winced. Did that type of torture count in Aziraphale’s favor? Since the being they had to convince to help them babysit the angel was Dagon, probably not.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said. “Faulkner, Joyce, Twain … ooh, is that a new Steinbeck novel?”

He reached out to take something from a shelf, but Dagon was having none of that. She rushed over in a whirl of tentacles to smack his hand. “No. You never, never touch my books without permission.” **

** Anyone who mistook Dagon for a harmless paper pusher hadn’t heard what had happened when the late Mr. Hong opened the Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Bar on the former site of a fish-god temple.

“I see.” Aziraphale nursed his hand as if he expected to make Dagon feel guilty. “Well, I suppose Steinbeck would be a little much for the surroundings. He always tended to be pessimistic.”

“Even more so now,” Dagon said. “Aziraphale, I will personally eviscerate you and see your entrails fed to sharks if I spot as much as one book out of order. Only I know where everything belongs.”

The angel pursed his lips. “You’ve ordered the fiction by the middle names of the authors in reverse. Oh, I believe you confused your Bronte sisters. Would you like me to—”

“Don’t. Touch. Anything.” Dagon practically shook with indignation. “Lord Beelzebub, a word?”

They attempted to look bored as they followed Dagon a few steps away from Aziraphale’s perusal of the bookshelves, allowing their flies to follow slowly.

“What exactly is going on here?” she hissed.

“He won’t Fall until he decidez that’z what he wantz.” It was a guess, but it felt right. “I convinced him to come down and see what he’z missing. Consider thiz hiz job interview.”

“Here? In my library?”

Beelzebub longed to tell her that she didn’t have true ownership of anything, but it wasn’t the time. They’d have to save it for her next performance review.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale called, causing Dagon to flinch. “Where are the books authored by demons?”

“There are no books written by demons,” she snapped. “Demons don’t create art.”

Aziraphale rose an eyebrow, which was somehow enough to convey his complete disagreement. Dagon widened her eyes and said nothing. Her thoughts were likely following the same path as Beelzebub’s, namely: what in the name of Lucifer had Crowley been doing up there? He’d always been a fiend for new ideas, which Beelzebub should’ve punished him for more often. Having Earth’s field agent on their team, though, had always conferred a certain amount of prestige – not to mention Crowley’s unpredictability kept the other Princes of Hell guessing what their team might do next.

Beelzebub remembered something else pertinent. “Up on Earth, Aziraphale haz a very large collection of demon summoning bookz.”

Dagon’s jaw fell. “Are you serious? What does he want with them?”

Aziraphale again interrupted their not-private-enough conversation. “I was getting them off the streets.” **

** The proverbial last straw had been the reign of James I, when every time Crowley managed to escape the notice of the courtiers, some second-rate alchemist would summon him during dinner or, worse, dessert.

“More likely, you were studying the optimal way to summon demons,” Dagon said.

“I find single-malt scotch works best,” Aziraphale said.**

** He was very proud of this witticism, but as Crowley had warned him, this was a tough audience. Up in Heaven, a restless and bored Crowley was compelled to whisper “Wahoo” without knowing why.

“Figure out what he knowz about demon summoning,” Beelzebub said. They didn’t have a lot of credit with Dagon currently, but she wouldn’t be able to resist learning more about how humans got demons to do their bidding. She went to object anyway, just to prove she could most likely, but Hastur lumbered up and lurked over Beelzebub’s shoulder. The flies passed in front of Dagon’s eyes to land on Hastur’s arms.

“What do you want?” Dagon said.

Hastur shrugged. “Earwig fetched me.”

“I need you to guard the traitor Aziraphale.” Beelzebub motioned to where the angel was vibrating happily as he read the titles of the new releases.

For the first time since Crowley’s trial, Hastur showed some interest. His flat black eyes shone as he punched his right fist into his left hand. “The traitor angel finally Fell.”

Dagon made a mucosal noise of disgust. “Apparently not. He’s here visiting.”

Hastur froze. “Visiting? Who visits Hell?” **

** Mammon had ideas for developing a tourist trade for humans, but Beelzebub was successfully leading a resistance. It wouldn’t do for word to get around regarding what they did to humans down here – not that it had ever slowed admissions before.

“I’m on a diplomatic mission,” Aziraphale said, walking over to Hastur. “Well, well, well. Lord Hastur, Crowley’s nemesis.”

“Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” Hastur eyed Aziraphale warily. “Crowley’s boyfriend.”

Aziraphale and Hastur sized each other up with dark looks. This was interesting. In Beelzebub’s opinion, there was nothing like a little rivalry to keep everyone on their toes. Aziraphale already fit into their team, upsetting Dagon effortlessly and getting Hastur’s malevolence flowing, just like Crowley always had. It might even be in balance if Ligur was still here to rasp some intimidating threats. Of course, if they ended up with both Aziraphale and Crowley – and there was no reason they wouldn’t – they’d have to separate them or wipe their memories. Or just keep the traitor angel locked up in their office. They wiped their lips. So many options!

“He doesn’t look like a demon,” Dagon said. “Someone’s bound to notice.”

“That’s true,” Aziraphale said. He wiggled his fingers and then pouted again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have expected to be able to use a miracle. That was spelled out in my contract.”

“I’ll give you thiz one,” Beelzebub said. They couldn’t allow divine power down here, obviously, but they loaned Aziraphale a spark of their infernal power for a makeover. They’d pick a stoat theme for the former angel, or some type of raptor, but they were curious to see what Aziraphale chose.

In an instant, Aziraphale changed his coat and trousers to charcoal grey. His tartan bow tie took on a silver and black pattern, and his waistcoat changed to match.

“There, how’s that?” he asked. “I think it’s quite demonic.”

“That’z it?” Ugh, the angel wasn’t getting into the spirit of the thing. He wasn’t nearly as much fun as Beelzebub had hoped.

“You look like you’ve come from an American junior prom,” Dagon said.

Aziraphale gasped. “How dare you? That was completely uncalled for.”

Dagon’s sharp teeth dripped ichor. “You’re a terrible demon.”

“I’m not a demon. I’m on a diplomatic mission establishing relations between Hell and Earth.”

Hastur shook his head. “If Ligur was here to see this…”

Naturally, that’s when Beelzebub’s phone beeped. It couldn’t be anyone but Gabriel.

“Enough!” Beelzebub yelled. “I don’t have time for thiz. Just don’t let the traitor leave the library. And find out what he knowz about demon summoning. Nonviolently!”

“There’s a deficiency in my occult book collection,” Aziraphale said, still shooting wounded looks at Dagon. “It only has the human point of view.”

“We don’t care about the angel point of view,” Dagon said.

Aziraphale glared at her. “What I mean is that there’s no record of demon summoning from the demon’s point of view. I know how Crowley felt about it—”

“I’ll bet you did,” Hastur snarled.

Beelzebub’s phone beeped again. “What’z your point, angel? Make it quick.”

Aziraphale wasn’t capable of that. “When a run-of-the-mill human sorcerer writes down his version of events, he can’t resist adding paragraphs of demons begging and pleading for freedom. Humans have an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate.”

“They should be wiped from the Earth like scum,” Hastur said.

“Yes, well. As I was saying—”

“Say it faster,” Beelzebub ordered.

“If I could record the other side of the event … Oh! I could interview demons who have been summoned. Real primary source research.” He rocked on his toes. “For example, a man named John Dee summoned a lizard demon who Crowley and I thought must’ve been Ligur. Only Dee’s account has him wailing like a baby, and that couldn’t be right. I should interview him first. Where is Ligur?”

The flies fell silent and hovered. Aziraphale must know what had happened to Ligur. Before Beelzebub could react, Hastur shoved his face into Aziraphale’s. “Crowley destroyed him with holy water.”

“That was self-defense, as you know perfectly well,” Aziraphale said. “Didn’t Adam restore Ligur along with everything else?”

“What are you talking about?” Hastur said.

“Adam’z the Antichrist, Destroyer of Kingz, and so on,” Beelzebub said. “Are you saying he could bring back Ligur?” The Antichrist’s power must be incredible. And the only beings who could even guess at the extent of those powers were the traitors. “What ‘everything else’ did he restore?”

They wracked their brain for the word to describe Aziraphale’s expression before coming up with ‘sympathy’. Although his angelic powers should’ve been neutralized, his manner was drawing uncomfortable and long-disused feelings from their chest. “I’m so sorry about Ligur,” he said. “I didn’t realize he wouldn’t be here. Not that Crowley had any other choice, of course.”

Hastur snorted.

Dagon stared blearily at Beelzebub. “Your phone is going off again. Can’t you put that on vibrate?”

That was too far over the line. They let their power build up under their corporation as their flies buzzed en masse. Dagon stepped back. “My Lord.”

Much better. They surveyed their underlings – and whatever Aziraphale currently was – with coldness. “I expect you to take care of thiz situation.”

They marched away, despite the feeling they hadn’t explained the situation adequately. They would only be in their office a few minutes, after all, which should be enough to put Gabriel back in his place.

They called the Archangel as soon as they closed their office door. “Why are you bothering me?”

“How’s Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked, his voice as jolly as it had ever been. “Having fun with him?”

“You called me for that?”

Gabriel didn’t acknowledge the question. “Because Crowley’s doing great. You didn’t tell me he’s a music enthusiast. Talks a lot less than Aziraphale, too. I think I like him better.”

They could play that game too. “Aziraphale iz doing extremely well. He and Dagon are in the library right now plotting against you.”

“Hmmph,” Gabriel said.

“Hmmph,” they agreed. “What do you want, Gabriel?”

“Lethe River water, obviously. When are we going to the Underworld?”

Ah. They relaxed into their desk chair. They should’ve known Gabriel would need their help with something. “I wasn’t planning on going. Iz there a problem?”

“Seriously?” Gabriel sounded unusually high-pitched. “We’re not going together? I hate the Underworld.”

“I thought it waz something you could handle yourself, but if you need my help …” _Go ahead and beg for it_ , Beelzebub thought. That would lift their spirits immensely.

“It’s not that I need your help. It’s that your plan is all work for me while you do nothing.”

“I’m not doing nothing. I’m distracting Aziraphale for you.”

“I could’ve done that with a crossword puzzle and a tin of biscuits.” Gabriel sighed. “We went to the bookshop together. Why can’t we go to the Underworld together?”

“Just tell me you need my help.”

“I don’t need your help. I just thought it would be fun.”

He thought it would be fun? Just the idea made every muscle in their corporation’s breathing tube tense. “We can’t go on holidayz together. We’re not them.”

They hadn’t meant to sound so throaty. God below, that breathing tube was annoying.

“Fine.” Gabriel’s voice, in contrast, was bland and emotionless. “If you want to be that way about it, I’ll do it myself. Just like every other important step to starting the apocalypse.”

Beelzebub sighed. “You’ll be fine. It’z tediouz and boring there, but it’z not dangerouz.”

“I’m the Archangel Fucking Gabriel. I’m not worried about Greek godlets.”

“Right. You just wanted to uz to go have some fun.” They had to admit, the idea of watching “the Archangel Fucking Gabriel” throw his weight around in the Underworld was incredibly tempting. They could picture him now, backslapping Charon the ferryman with his gung ho condescension. He’d make the poor bastard feel like he should be mopping the floors instead of guarding the entrance to Hell.

“I’ll just go alone with a doggie biscuit for Cerberus,” Gabriel said. “Unless you change your—”

Beelzebub hung up on him. **

** Their current streak was 659 consecutive disconnections while Gabriel was speaking mid-word, and they were looking forward to hitting 666.

There was no reason to accompany Gabriel to the underworld. They’d been giddy with anticipation at the idea of keeping Aziraphale in Hell forever, and they should be working towards that goal.

They sighed. Gabriel was right about everything. Not only was Aziraphale cataclysmically annoying, Beelzebub was contributing next to nothing towards Armageddon.

A squishing noise distracted them from their spiraling thoughts. “Wasn’t that an interesting conversation. My Lord.”

Well, shit. It was their own fault for agreeing to the ornamental pond in their office. They should’ve remembered that no good deed goes unpunished. **

** It was etched into the walls, for Satan’s sake, although saliva had worn down the letters. The paving stones used on the road in should’ve been another reminder.

Dagon shook the water out of her gills, adjusting to the change from fish form to … vaguely mer-human shaped. Beelzebub had the presence of mind not to blurt out something like “How much of that did you overhear?” or “How did you swim up into the pond so fast?” The neutral poker-face they had cultivated for centuries became even stonier.

“Why aren’t you watching the traitor?” they asked in a bored voice.

“Demons aren’t capable of acting like nannies,” Dagon said. “And it seems that traitors can be found in surprising places these days.”

They tilted their desk chair into a reclining position and examined their fingernails / talons oh so casually.

“So you’re in league with the Archangel Gabriel,” she said. “That’s why Aziraphale is here. It’s a favor to your adversary.”

They sprang to their feet. “Absolutely not. He’z here because he should belong to uz.”

“And what was that last part? Something about going on a holiday together?” Dagon raised her eyebrows, if that’s what they were supposed to be.

Their flies banged into each other in midflight. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t forget it.”

“First, I get proof that Crowley was fraternizing with Aziraphale for centuries on _your_ watch. After you took over Crowley’s supervisory position from me. Now I find out that you’re fraternizing in secret, too. How long, Beelzebub?”

They growled. “You don’t have proof. You have rumorz whispered in your ear by the Archangel Michael. You’ve been fraternizing more than I have.”

“I don’t have proof?” They could count on one hand how many times they’d heard Dagon laugh, and they hoped never to hear it again. “I have Aziraphale in my library, you fool.”

“You get one chance to insult me before I cast you into a lava pit, and you choze fool?”

She clicked her tongue. “Something tells me I can make it to Leviathan before the lava.”

It figured. Leviathan had been enviously looking to poach Dagon since before the Garden of Eden. Dagon truly was the most unloyal demon who’d ever been cast into the Fire. In other circumstances, they would’ve given her a commendation. As it was, they’d have to placate her until the apocalypse, when they could show her the true definition of corporate headhunting.

“It occurred to me that Armageddon’s failure wasn’t completely Crowley’s fault,” she said. “Nobody believes that he and Aziraphale are powerful enough to derail the Great Plan. So I did a failure analysis. My forensic evaluation points at bad regulations preventing us from optimal effectiveness.”

“I could go listen to Aziraphale if I wanted to hear an overblown speech,” they said coolly – as if they had the slightest bit of leverage.

“Oh, but you’ve figured it out on your own, haven’t you?” she said with a nasty gleam in her eye. “The most effective way to wipe out the human race requires across the board collaboration with Heaven.”

They thought they’d received the worst shock of this encounter when Dagon had emerged from the ornamental pond. **

** They made a mental reminder for the day after Armageddon to refill the pond with Coca-Cola and Pop Rocks.

“You want to work with the angelz?” They whistled. “You’re upset because I’ve been shielding you from pleasantnezz?”

“I don’t particularly want it.”

“Neither do I,” they said, possibly too quickly.

“But I’ve looked at this backwards and forwards.” Her habit of falling back on the bureaucracy was so ingrained, they almost expected a PowerPoint presentation to appear. “If I’d been entrusted with Crowley’s oversight, if I’d been able to keep in contact with Heaven about their surveillance of him, we would’ve known about his partnership with Aziraphale long before the birth of the Antichrist.”

It was Beelzebub’s turn to laugh. “You scheduled my quarterly meetingz with Gabriel. You know we kept the back channel open for itemz concerning Crowley.”

“But you didn’t trust me with it.”

“You’re blackmailing me to prove that I should’ve trusted you?”

She pulled her tentacles in to give her even more of a height advantage. “You and Gabriel failed, and there was no redundancy in place for your failure. I might’ve been able to see what you should have, if you hadn’t been more intent on one-upping Gabriel at your meetings than working for Hell’s best interests.”

They should’ve been able to roast her on a spit with Carolina-style barbecue sauce for suggesting such blasphemy against them.**

** They really weren’t that great at coming up with creative tortures. The worst part was the nagging little voice in their head that said Gabriel would’ve thought of something better.

As it was, Dagon had the upper hand. Temporarily. They’d have to let her in on some of their plan.

Their flies’ humming turned less chaotic, more soothing. “I understand your concernz about the past. I do. And I may have …” They gritted their teeth. “… made some mistakez. But now I’m concerned about the present and the future. That conversation you overheard waz part of my plan to restart the apocalypse.”

“That conversation where you agreed to bring an angel down to my inner sanctum?” she said, with that annoying emphasis on “my” again.

“Give me 72 hourz,” they said in their best tempting voice. “If the apocalypse isn’t underway by then, I’ll turn myself over to Leviathan for you.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m beginning to wonder if the apocalypse is worth all this effort. Taking angels on guided tours of Hell. Secret conversations with Gabriel.”

“We will win the Great War,” they reminded her. “It haz been foretold. And if Aziraphale can be believed, the Antichrist iz more powerful than we imagined.”

She rocked back and forth, considering for a minute. “Alright,” she finally said, “but I expect some reforms in procedures after these 3 human days.”

Three days! They and Gabriel had both been wrong, and the traitors had let them argue about it, knowing all the while what 72 hours meant. They couldn’t think of a better reason to keep Aziraphale in Hell for all eternity, and Crowley too, with his memory of Aziraphale completely obliterated.

“I’ll keep you informed from now on,” they said. It was a lie, of course, but Dagon would expect nothing less. They couldn’t afford to disrespect her by being truthful.

She either smiled at them or displayed her fangs. “That’s all I want. Transparency in management.”

“Of course.” The only transparency they intended was to flay her skin off her in thin, translucent strips. But the apocalypse came first.

Three days. If the world didn’t end by then, Beelzebub’s career would. And in Hell, the consequences of career failure could be very painful. After all, there was no place to go but down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From reading @KannaOphelia's gorgeous fics, I've learned that chapters featuring Dagon are supposed to have titles from Kylie Minogue songs. I don't make rules, I just follow them.
> 
> Posting a bonus chapter today to let you know I posted Good Omens Christmas fluff at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862564 (The Unbearable Awfulness of Christmas in London). However you celebrate, have a wonderful holiday!


	9. Good Snakes Go to Heaven, Bad Snakes Go Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are there snakes in Heaven? There must be, for snake lovers. But then what about kittens? There have to be kittens in Heaven, but how to keep them safe from snakes? Perhaps I'm overthinking this. Anyway, in this chapter, Crowley goes to Heaven.

Gabriel didn’t sneak Crowley into Heaven. Gabriel didn’t sneak anywhere. What would be the point? He had yet to find a place where he couldn’t expect to be welcomed.**

** In the past, he’d gotten some frosty receptions at the bookshop, but he’d told himself that Aziraphale had been happy to see him deep down. Reflection on recent events might have caused him to revise this theory, but hey, who has time for revisiting the past?

Even if Gabriel were to saunter through the gates of Hell, he’d expect to be welcomed.**

** In this thought, he was completely correct.

So he and Crowley took the main entrance into Heaven. The demon’s outfit drew some strange looks. Black wasn’t Heaven’s most popular color. Also, Aziraphale had never gotten around to telling his pet that human corporations only had two hip joints. Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t have to fill in all the gaps in Aziraphale’s training. He’d always found snakes a little creepy.

Although Gabriel had let Beelzebub think he’d gotten the angels to agree to Crowley’s presence, he only had a “maybe” from Michael. Beelz had been so impressed, though, hadn’t they? It wasn’t truly lying by omission, which could be a sin or just bad form, if it kept one’s adversary guessing.

The heavenly host would also be doing a lot of guessing, which had Gabriel feeling somewhat cut off and lonely. 

“Yeah, so I’m thinking I can just get out of your hair,” Crowley said.

“Huh. That’s … surprisingly considerate,” Gabriel said. “But I think we’ll have to set some ground rules. Follow me.”

Crowley made a weird noise. He made a lot of them, and they were all incomprehensible. “We already have a contract.”

Yes, and the serpent would be looking to punch holes in it to slither through. “Let’s not worry about paperwork. You’re not here to read. Don’t you get enough of that with Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s silent stare was even more disconcerting than the weird vocalizations. Looking at dark lenses all the time was throwing Gabriel off his stride.

“You don’t have to wear those glasses here,” he said.

“Eh, what glasses?” 

Gabriel had spent too much time with Beelzebub to be baited that obviously. 

In any case, they were starting to attract a crowd. Cherubim and seraphim gathered in the hallways, pushing up against the walls so they wouldn’t get too close. Gabriel could hear their whispers. “It’s really a demon, that’s not just any demon, that’s the traitor.” The weight of everyone’s attention was overwhelming – fortunately, most of it was focused on Crowley, not him. He turned up the wattage on his bright smile, and it had the desired effect of stopping the lower-level angels from asking any questions. 

Sandalphon wasn’t as easily intimidated. He alone stepped forward from the group. “Gabriel! What have we here?” 

“This?” Gabriel clapped Sandalphon on the back. “The Serpent of Eden. You didn’t recognize him?”

Sandalphon drew close enough that Gabriel could smell the smoky anointing oil he used on his hair. “What’s it doing here?” he said quietly.

“Walking to my office, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Crowley mocked. It was a very good imitation of Gabriel’s voice. He wondered if the serpent had practiced.**

** Incessantly. For millennia. It was one of those treasured things that could make Aziraphale laugh and blush in embarrassment for laughing at the same time. Once when he and Aziraphale were unspeakably drunk, he’d used his Gabriel voice to prank call Beelzebub. Once. 

By the time they entered his office, Uriel had joined them, shooting glances at Crowley that barely landed, as if she was afraid of being caught staring. Sandalphon was bolder, staring outright. The leadup to the Notapocalypse, and now to Apocalypse 2, was making Gabriel regret his aggressive open door policy.**

** Heaven was, for the most part, an unchanging place. However, there were occasionally lively debates about whether any kind of knowledge should be forbidden. The angels in favor of the free flow of knowledge were winning the debate, but the angels against it had a powerful argument in their favor when they brought up Gabriel reading human books on personnel management.

“You brought the traitor demon to Heaven.” Uriel had always been good at stating the obvious.

Sandalphon went to poke Crowley, but the demon wormed out of the way. 

“Why are you trying to poke him? Really, Sandalphon, have you ever met a demon you didn’t smite?” 

Sandalphon shook his head. “I see a demon, I smite it.” It was impossible to gauge Crowley’s reaction to this because he was pacing a circle around the office.

“Why is he here?” Uriel asked.

That was the question, wasn’t it? “It’s a bureaucratic dispute with Hell, nothing to worry about.” Gabriel projected as much certainty as he could into his voice. “We’re determining whether they get Aziraphale and Crowley or we do.”

Sandalphon gasped. “You can’t be considering taking Aziraphale back.”

Crowley sprang up directly in front of Sandalphon and hissed. “You bloody bastards, you don’t deserve to be in the same room with him.”

Sandalphon stepped backward. “Gabriel?”

Crowley closed the gap between them. “Go on, send me to Hell. You want to, don’t you? Your fingers are itching to smite me, I can tell. Give in, you prick.”

Sandalphon resisted the temptation, letting his power run into the ground unused. Uriel kept her distance. “We can’t take him. Demons are unforgivable,” she said.

“Are they?” Michael strode in, her words silencing the room. She came right up to Crowley without hesitation. And then she smiled.

“Welcome to Heaven, Crowley, Serpent of Eden,” she said. “Thank you for coming to visit.”

“Ngk – umm – yeah, sure,” Crowley said.

“You are here to prove the theory that demons can never be forgiven and brought back into God’s grace,” Michael said loftily. Gabriel could practically see the words loft. “We await Her will, Her will be done.”

“Her will be done,” Gabriel said, and Uriel echoed him. Sandalphon gaped in open-mouthed astonishment. Gabriel almost envied his ignorance. Everything about this encounter made his shoulder blades itch.

“So,” he said, trying to recover his equilibrium, “ground rules for your visit. I’m sure if we establish a consensus agreement, this will go a lot smoother and more harmoniously.”

The problem was that he had to get in touch with Beelzebub and arrange for the Lethe River water. While he made that phone call, he’d have to entrust Crowley to his associates and hope nobody got carried away and started smiting. The concepts “Crowley” and “not getting carried away” couldn’t be reconciled in his mind.

“How ‘bout I just go loiter around the human souls?” Crowley asked.

The last thing Gabriel needed was to open a can of worms regarding whether souls could be corrupted _after_ they ascended to Heaven. “No, that wouldn’t be advisable.”

“Tch,” the demon said, and took his mobile out of his pocket.**

** He tried to text Aziraphale, but the message wouldn’t deliver due to Hell’s crappy cellular reception. Crowley had engineered the system’s corruption himself at a great investment of time and trouble so he’d have an excuse when Beelzebub or Dagon tried to call him, so the only surprise Crowley felt when he saw the Message Undelivered error was that the scheme had taken this long to bite him in the ass.

“Or here’s an idea,” Sandalphon said. “We could just smite it now.”

Fortunately, Sandalphon hadn’t spent enough time on Earth to recognize the rude gesture Crowley made for what it was. Perhaps Gabriel could kill two birds with one stone – get rid of Sandalphon while giving him more human experience.

“Sandalphon! Why don’t you guard the way to the human souls to make sure Crowley doesn’t accidentally wind up in that area?”

“Yeaah, run along, boy,” Crowley said, which wasn’t helpful, to say the least. The condescension was emphasized by how the demon wouldn’t look up from whatever he was doing on his phone.**

** Not much without cellular reception. He definitely wasn’t looking through his photos like a silly sentimental sap.

“Thank you so much,” Gabriel said by way of apology. Sandalphon scowled openly at him – a rare occurrence, and not a good harbinger of things to come – and left.

Michael was still wreathed in a luminous smile. Gabriel had the sinking feeling in his gut that she was playing a game at a level above him. “I think we should give Crowley a tour and let him get to know everyone,” she said.

Uriel had recovered her composure. “He can’t walk around dressed like that.”

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. “He can’t seem to walk well at all in those trousers.”

Crowley leered at him. “In my experience, angels enjoy watching me walk in these trousers.”

Ugh, ew, thank Her that Sandalphon had missed that bon mot. “Dress more appropriately, demon.” He flicked his fingers, shooting Crowley a spark of divine miracle. He expected Crowley to tailor himself a form-fitting gray suit, but instead he clothed himself in an ancient Greek-styled gown, white with black and gold trimming around the neck and hem in a snake pattern. 

“Oh, lovely,” Michael said. Crowley took a cautious step back from her, and Gabriel could hardly blame him. “Why don’t we start with the celestial choir?”

“Music’s fine,” Crowley said hesitantly. “So, hang on, you want me to like it here?”

“There’s nothing in our contract about liking it here,” Gabriel pointed out.

Crowley snorted. “It’s not _not_ in the contract.”

The fact that demons even knew how to read was enough to make one wonder how well the Lake of Fire had been thought out. “I’m not going to argue semantics with you, Serpent.”

“Wise move, Gabe.” **

** Centuries of establishing and maintaining the Arrangement had pushed Crowley and Aziraphale to hone arguing semantics into a new art form. The Greek gods were considering assigning a muse.

Michael gave Uriel’s forearm a friendly squeeze. “Uriel, would you mind going ahead with Crowley to the concert? I want to talk to Gabriel for a moment, but we’ll be right behind you.”

“He won’t spit hellfire at me, will he?” Uriel asked reasonably.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “If I could spit hellfire, I would’ve spit it at Gabe already.” He curled his lips, displaying fang teeth in an expression that was, well, demonic. “Although anyone at Aziraphale’s execution would do, I suppose.”

“He can’t use any occult powers,” Gabriel said. 

“It will be fine,” Michael said. “I promise.”

Uriel nodded once and led Crowley away, saying, “You know, you don’t have to wear those dark glasses here.”

“Eh, what glasses?”

Gabriel almost followed, curious to hear how Uriel responded, but of course he wasn’t all that curious. He just wanted to avoid this conversation with Michael. Well, cowardice did not befit an archangel. He relaxed his stance and did his best to present Michael with an open, receptive, active listener.

“Not that I recall agreeing to host Crowley up here,” Michael said, “but now that it’s done – by your unilateral decision, I’d like to add for the record – I don’t want to waste the opportunity.”

There would be a record somewhere. Angels loved to keep records. “Sure, sure. The, uh, opportunity for what exactly?”

She raised her eyebrows as if it were obvious. “Making the back channel more transparent.”

“What?” His legs felt unsteady and he sank into his desk chair. “You want everyone to know that we have dealings with Hell.”

“Gabriel, you can’t possibly think I like sneaking around and keeping secrets from the Heavenly Host.”

No, Gabriel could attest there was nothing to like about it. “It’s our responsibility. We can’t expect to like everything about our responsibilities. That’s why it’s called work and not play.”

“I don’t have it in me to keep meeting with my adversaries in secret and not feel turmoil about it.” She pulled at a loose strand of her hair. “I’m not like you and Aziraphale.”

“What – how – but –“ Great, she had him sputtering like the serpent. “I’m nothing like Aziraphale. Nothing. You know, this all goes away when Armageddon begins again. The only dealings we’ll have with our adversaries will be on the sharp ends of our swords.”

“Armageddon isn’t starting again.” She sounded so damn sure. What had happened to bring her so much doubt in the Great Plan?

“Oh ye of little faith.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Armageddon is at hand.” **

** Gabriel had no doubt that Heaven would win the upcoming Great War. Doubt was a sucker’s game. Once you started having doubts, you might as well turn in your halo and prepare to pack very lightly for your new, much warmer surroundings.

“Then what’s the point of bringing Crowley here?” she asked.

Gabriel shrugged. “If a demon in Heaven isn’t a sign of the End of Days, I don’t know what is.”

“Well, with your permission, I’m taking him around to meet everyone. I want to see how they react.”

“You don’t need my permission. You never did.” 

He loved Michael, in that abstract way in which angels loved everyone, but he also particularly liked her. He’d always admired her and respected her opinion, and their current views being so much at odds made him worry for her. If only she’d heard the Metatron speak to him! 

He almost spilled his guts to her there and then. If it would’ve reassured her about the inevitability of the Great Plan, he would’ve told her everything he and Beelzebub had engineered. But she’d just confessed to him how secrets with Hell jeopardized her inner peace. He couldn’t burden her soul further just because he felt lonelier than he remembered feeling since the last Celestial War. It was his responsibility to shoulder alone.

Michael was wrong about practically everything, but she was right about secrets burning holes in the center of your being. There was something … bad about a plan that required him to trick a demon into prodding the Antichrist into action, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. At least it was hard to feel sympathy for Crowley. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale had been a very positive influence on him. Some of the things that came out of the demon’s mouth made Gabriel think Aziraphale might have been a bad influence on the demon, and if he tried to follow that line of thinking, he’d start babbling insanely about “we should have been able to tell yours from ours” like Beelzebub. 

It was better to get moving while Michael was otherwise occupied. Moving was always more productive than musing. Calling Beelzebub to arrange their trip to Underworld would assuage his conscience.

It didn’t.

After Gabriel got off the phone – well, more accurately, after Beelzebub hung up on him again after an extremely disappointing conversation, and weren’t they all disappointing conversations with Beelzebub, to be honest, although it was his own fault for having expectations that a demon would be anything less than slothful, even demons as high ranking as Beezlebub, with whom he’d always had a mutually productive relationship, but apparently when the chips were down and you needed them most, they’d be busy, uh, slothing – after that, Gabriel went to find Crowley.

It was much too easy to find Crowley. All he had to do was follow the crowd. As the gathering of angels grew more congested, Gabriel picked up his pace, curling his hands into fists. What damage had the demon wrought this time?

The demon was still attending the concert with Uriel. She stood with rapt attention, shining brightly.**

** Archangel Uriel was a patron of the arts, angel of poetry, and regent of the Sun. In her favored corporation, she had a beautiful coloratura mezzo-soprano voice. On her last performance review, Gabriel had noted her tendency to become enraptured by celestial harmonies in lieu of regenting the Sun, but as she’d pointed out, if the Sun extinguished itself, it would only be the end of the world.

Standing with rapt attention wasn’t in Crowley’s repertoire, and possibly not in his bone structure. He shifted from foot to foot and held up his phone in different directions, as if cellular service was possible without divine miracles.**

**I mean, imagine if the humans could make phone calls from Heaven. It would defeat the whole purpose, like people who take RVs with satellite dishes to go camping or people who bring their laptops to the beach. 

Gabriel gently pushed through the crowd, murmuring greetings to Ariel, Barachiel, Cassiel, Dadriel, Eremiel … for Hades’ sakes, was everyone here? He told 10 million angels to stand down from high alert, and every single one of them was using it as an excuse to slack off.

The celestial choir’s harmonizing was as perfect as always. The halleluiahs were reaching a crescendo of joy, about to cascade down a gentle slope of praise. It lightened Gabriel’s step. There was no perfection other than ethereal perfection, and it was his privilege to ensure it stayed that way. Not everyone could be so honored. For example, some beings had once been angels and had spit in God’s face, and now one of them – just one in all of eternity – was being given a glimpse of perfection that was bound to bring him to tears of remorse.

“So, like, this part of the celestial harmonies,” Crowley was asking Uriel, “how long does it go on? When’s intermission?”

Crowley was taller than her, but she managed to look down her nose at him. “How long? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

He threw his arm out to encompass his surroundings. A few cherubim jumped out of the way. “When does this end?” 

“It never ends, Serpent,” Gabriel said, swelling with pride. “It’s eternal. It will last longer than Earth. It will last longer than Hell after we defeat your kind.”

“Doesn’t it ever bloody change, though?” Gabriel shouldn’t have been able to tell that Crowley was rolling his eyes through the glasses, but there it was, an obvious eye roll. “It’s all the same emotional tenor, right? Where’s the dramatic tension, the suspense?”

He would’ve put the criticism down to an infernal hearing disorder, but the phrase “dramatic tension” sounded suspiciously familiar. Not that Gabriel had time to read all those field agent reports from Earth, but he could somehow picture Beelzebub saying “dramatic tension” in their pansy ass angel voice and fluttering their eyelashes.

A few angels tittered nervously at Crowley’s questions. Michael circulated among them with a tablet, taking down quotes. Gabriel couldn’t figure out why. Heaven didn’t make decisions based on a majority vote.**

** Other than the Miss Congeniality awards, which was one of Heaven’s ideas. The first movie was their idea too, obviously. The sequel, not so much.

“The cello!” Crowley yelled suddenly. Someone sprinted towards the stairwell – Noel, that coward. 

“Sometimes the human souls play instruments for us.” Uriel tended to glow when she talked about music. “They have a lovely orchestra.”

“You – you have musicians here?” Crowley said. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed that.”

“It’s not a large orchestra,” Uriel admitted, “but it extends what you called the emotional tenor.”

“Now that’s more like it.”

“Yes, their last performance of _The Sound of Music_ ranged from sweet to pleasantly nostalgic to …” Uriel’s forehead creased in thought. “What do you call the feeling of a just washed puppy falling asleep on your lap?”

“I don’t call it anything,” Crowley said, bouncing his leg. He stalked a couple of meters away and held up the phone again.

Uriel frowned. “We strongly discourage mobile phone use during performances.”

“Smite him!” someone called out. 

“No smiting,” Gabriel said sternly.

Uriel put her hands on her hips. “It’s phone use during a concert. Surely that’s on an approved smiting list somewhere.”

Gabriel grabbed Crowley’s shoulder and dug in his fingers to pin the slippery serpent to one place. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Crowley made a strangled noise. He was surprisingly cold to the touch. Weren’t demons supposed to be hot blooded? Was that an appropriate thing to be wondering about demons?

“Sooo when am I going to get what’s been promised to me, Gabe?” he asked suddenly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, the thing.” The demon made some confusing hand gestures. “The _thing_. I can’t say it. The reason I agreed to come here.”

The murmuring of the angels had ceased completely. Even the choir seemed muted. The scrutiny was hotter than a searchlight trained on his face. Gabriel swallowed and sharpened his grip on Crowley’s shoulder. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Crawly. That I promise you.”

Michael was absolutely on hand for that exchange, as if she had materialized from thin air.**

** Which she could do, but in this case, Gabriel had failed to hear the footfalls of her sensible but understatedly stylish dress flats.

“Wonderful,” Michael said. “We just have a few questions for you to answer, Anthony J. Crowley.”

“What does the J stand for?” Gabriel asked, despite really knowing better.

Crowley twisted himself out of Gabriel’s grasp. “Does that count as one of the questions? Because I don’t feel like answering it.”

“We can’t force you to answer any questions.” Michael tapped her pen on the tablet. “But be aware that your refusal to answer may impact your chances of eternal salvation.”

“Oh, if that’s all, then I’ll skip Gabe’s question.” He grinned at Gabriel in a way he undoubtedly found cool and cocky instead of bratty. Gabriel couldn’t imagine the literal Hell his existence would’ve been if Beelz was this childish. 

Actually, Beelz always made Gabriel feel a little like he was the one being childish. _We can’t go on holidays together_. The nerve. As if they had been talking to a toddler. As if Gabriel would ever suggest anything like that.

Michael consulted her tablet. “Hark,” she read, “O demon, what would you forgo to earn yourself and the Guardian of the Eastern Gate the sacred entrance to eternal reward?”

“I hope these questions aren’t all worded like that,” Gabriel said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Ugh, me too,” Crowley said. “How many questions do you have written down there?”

Michael tapped the tablet, ticking off a few entries. “I think approximately 750,000.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows all the way to his hairline. “Seven hundred what?”

“And fifty thousand,” Michael said. “Approximately.”

“I have a question,” Uriel said. “Are you personal friends with Satan?”

One of the Virtues, too powerful to ignore, stepped forward. “Did you really deliver the Antichrist to Earth?”

“Aren’t storks supposed to do that?” someone else asked. “Is the demon a stork?”

"I thought it was snake, not stork?"

The floodgates were open, and everyone began to call out questions. “Did Aziraphale make you drink holy water?” “Are you responsible for Scientology?” “If you swallowed yourself, would you get twice as big or would you disappear?” **

** Answers: 1) technically, Irish whiskey isn’t actually holy water; 2) only the Xenu parts; 3) Hell’s R&D department is still working that out.

Suddenly there came … not a flash of light, but whatever its opposite was. Uriel screamed. Gabriel blinked and somehow, Crowley had disappeared. No, not disappeared. He had changed. A black snake about an armspan long with flashy red underbelly markings rustled underfoot, trying to disappear among the choir.

Well, that was easier than Gabriel feared it would be. He dove after the snake, went to pick it up, and then thought better of it and divinely conjured a large terrarium around Crowley.

“See?” he said to Michael. “The demon couldn’t stand being here. He had to transform into a beast to escape our gaze.”

Michael sighed. “I suppose. What are you going to do with him?”

“He can stay on my desk until the apocalypse.”

Michael’s posture was ramrod straight and her expression turned stormy. “We don’t need the apocalypse anymore. The Antichrist has been reformed. That makes the end of the world irrelevant. It only matters that good triumphs over evil. It doesn’t matter how.”

“Nope!” Gabriel said happily. “Good will triumph over evil, but it will be much clearer than what you’re suggesting. It will be a clean and simple war. No more questioning.”

He finally understood what she’d been trying to do. She didn’t disagree with him after all. No, she’d been desperate to prove that the events that sidelined Armageddon demonstrated Her goodness. She wanted to fit everything into a junk drawer marked “God Planned It,” no matter what it was, just like Aziraphale and his Ineffable Crap. 

Fortunately for Michael, her misguidedness wasn’t a mortal sin. Aziraphale, though, had actively worked against God’s plan. He and his pet demon were destined for Hell, which was for the best. Six minutes of the Crowley Experience had been wearying; 6000 years of it obviously drove weak angels mad; an eternity of it was unthinkable. He was honestly grateful Hell was willing to take the traitors off his hands. But he really hated to admit it to Beelz. 

His “no more questioning,” along with his quick thinking, kept the more curious angels from following him to his office. He plonked the terrarium on his desk and smiled at Crowley.

“Thirsty?” he asked the snake. Just to ensure it, he increased both the heat and light in his office. Soon the snake should be sweating. If snakes could sweat. 

“Can snakes sweat?” he asked.

Crowley tapped his snout on the glass and hissed, flicking his tongue in and out.

“Crowley! I wouldn’t give you holy water. I can’t believe you’d think that of me.”

One quick trip to the Underworld, and Crowley would be ready for Beelzebub’s reprogramming. Who knew that apocalypses were so easy to start? It all went to prove that when you followed God’s plan, the wind was at your back and the odds were forever in your favor. The universe came out right in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a wonderful holiday season. I love receiving your comments and kudos!


	10. Looking for an Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Demon Summoning Primary Research Project doesn’t keep Aziraphale as occupied in Hell as Beelzebub would hope. Hastur finds that “guarding an angel” has multiple meanings.

After he got accustomed to ignoring Dagon's ridiculous book shelving system, what Aziraphale hated most about Hell was the tedium. Nothing ever changed, and there was nothing to look forward to. That meant the demons called to see him in Dagon’s library were drawn to novelty like hellish moths to infernal flames. Dagon had used her tablet to cross-reference demons who had reported being summoned by humans and demons who didn’t have enough personal pull to make trouble for Lord Beelzebub. They were being sworn to secrecy with bloodcurdling threats from Hastur, but nobody was fooled. These minor demons were soaking up Aziraphale’s aura and then whispering about it through every level of perdition that gossip could permeate.**

** If a lie can travel around the world before the truth can get its boots on, the speed at which gossip traveled in Hell could be used to power Faster than Light spaceships, if anyone other than Crowley would care to do so. Fortunately, rumors have a way of warping things, so most of the imps were telling each other Mrs White was in the library with the candlestick, which was still worthy of interest because Hell was so damn boring.

Aziraphale had tried over and over to call and text Crowley on his obscenely complicated cellular phone, but it wasn’t working. He kept pulling at his new waistcoat, which quickly began to look worn. It was dawning on him that allowing himself to be separated from Crowley for this long had been a huge mistake, and not knowing if Crowley was safe had the corroding acid of guilt eating away at him.

They had been unrealistic. The fantasy of Heaven and Hell allowing them to come and go without harm had been too attractive. Now he was stuck interviewing demons with no way to communicate with Crowley. And just as Crowley had always said, demons had not self-selected for intelligence.**

** Well, Crowley hadn’t put it exactly that way. 

“Are you listening, traitor?” Hastur barked, bringing Aziraphale’s attention back to the extremely boring present.

“Right, of course.” Aziraphale nodded to the demon sitting across the table from him. “So, he wanted to exchange his soul to gain the woman he loved.”

“No!” The vaguely kangaroo-shaped demon pounded the table with a taloned fist. “He wanted his neighbor to die. He coveted the man’s wife!”

Aziraphale was actually quite good at extracting information from demons, having had an unusual amount of practice. He didn’t react in any visible way to the outburst – it had been his own fault for mentioning the L word. It was just so hard to keep paying attention. All the demon summoning stories were the same. “I was minding my own business when I popped up in a summoning circle and was told by a human to do something unpleasant to another human.” Occasionally, a demon had a story about a human asking for eternal life, which meant the demon didn’t have to do a thing.**

** Hastur wouldn’t let Aziraphale visit the area of Hell where those humans served out their “eternal life” sentences.

An inordinate number of the stories ended with the demons not doing a thing. Some people were quite capable of doing nasty deeds on their own and only needed a push from a demon who had other places to be and more important things to act apathetic about. This appeared to be another such story.

“I asked him if he had a hatchet, and he did. So I said, go on then, I’m right behind you. And then I left to file my report.” The kangaroo thing smiled proudly.

“Very evil,” Aziraphale said. “Do you remember the human’s name?”

“Dint ask. Dint seem important. I put ‘mad bugger’ on my report.”

“Aha, yes, clever. Do you know where on Earth this may have happened?”

The demon shrugged. “It was like … a shed?” They gasped. “Oh, it had rabid killer animals! That was a thing! They had hooves and horns and made an ‘ooooo’ sound. Huge evil creatures.”

Aziraphale wrote down ‘cows’. “Anything else out the ordinary you’d like to report?”

“Oi, he was terrified, that human. It smelled like the man shit his pants when I appeared.”

Aziraphale underlined ‘cows’. “Well, you haven’t been any kind of help at all, so I won’t thank you.”

Pleased with this stock response, the demon grinned and hopped to the library’s exit. Aziraphale rubbed at the center of his forehead, as if he could get a headache. “At least when Crowley was summoned, he’d make them inventory their liquor for him.”

Hastur snorted. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to make of Hastur. He seemed devoid of any motivation and emptied of any emotion other than bloody-minded despair. In theory, he should be one of the most intelligent demons in creation – after all, he was Crowley’s nemesis.**

** Officially, Crowley’s nemesis was Aziraphale. There were gigabites of files confirming this, but Aziraphale was avoiding asking about any of Crowley’s paperwork out of fear he’d be expected to correct it. 

Aziraphale checked his blasted phone again, and nothing had changed. They should’ve known that Beelzebub and Gabriel’s agreement to let them bring their phones had been too easy. What if they’d found a way to imprison Crowley? What if they were binding him with the same ropes that—

“These demons don’t have any pride in their work,” Hastur said, interrupting Aziraphale’s anxiety attack. “Just because a soul’s already damned doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put the fear of Satan into him. Spoiled millennials don’t want to get their hands dirty.”

“It’s been a bit anticlimactic, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale fiddled with his fountain pencil.**

** Crowley was very proud of that invention, but even he couldn’t tempt humans to adopt it.

“Back in the Dark Ages, they had real demon summonings,” Hastur said. “Now it’s all lonely people with cats and crystals.” He sneered, sneeringly. “Last time I was summoned, the candles were lilac scented.”

“Do you know, I’ve interviewed almost twenty demons so far, and not one has brought up animal sacrifice,” Aziraphale said. “Not even a goat.”

“Mmmh, I would’ve demanded at least a goat,” Hastur said. 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Aziraphale said. “It shouldn’t be as easy as ordering takeout.”

Hastur pointed to Aziraphale’s mobile. “It’s those phones. They broke humanity. They won’t do anything unless there’s an app for it.”

“I hardly blame humans for demons showing up to weak summons,” Aziraphale said, although he thought Hastur might have a valid point about the apps. “It’s a general lowering of the standards all around, though, isn’t it?”

Hastur pulled up a chair and warmed to his subject. “Now, when Ligur showed up to a summoning, you can bet nobody in the neighborhood forgot it. He could do this lingering odor that induced the proper sense of dread for days afterwards. Like a real rotting corpse smell. Got into everything.” He motioned to Aziraphale’s notes. “Can you see any of this poor lot inducing dread properly?”

“It takes a practiced touch.” Aziraphale had to give credit where credit was due. “Oh, hang on, I think I encountered that smell. Trondheim, sometime around 1300? Did Ligur do the hallucinations of worm-infested skeletons?”

“That was his trademark! Plagues, too.”

“Yes, the monastery outside Trondheim had an impressive plague of boils.” Aziraphale shuddered. “I had a terrible time convincing the monks that the boils weren’t a way for them to atone for their immaterial sins.”

Hastur erupted in a practiced-at-inducing-dread laugh. “They were begging for those boils, weren’t they?”

“Yes, you led me on a merry chase.” He smiled a little smugly. “Heaven got all of their souls in the end.”

“That’s what you think.”

Dagon drifted past their table, and Hastur stood quickly, but not noticeably quickly. The next demon due to be interviewed for the demon summoning project flounced up to the table, whiskers twitching kittenishly. 

“Do you know why you’re here?” Aziraphale asked, omitting the niceties of civilized conversation that made demons so jumpy.

“To tell you about the kid who summoned me?” The demon batted his pencil off the desk. “So, like, I was summoned on Twitter?”

“That’s it!” Hastur roared. “Get. Out.”

“But –“

“Out!” 

The demon took to its heels and ran. Hastur followed in pursuit, chasing the cat-demon into the curious demons already shoving each other as they waited their turn. All he had to do was point a gangrenous finger at the queue with a formless scream, and they scattered to the four winds.

Aziraphale had to admit that when Hastur cracked the verbal whip, he commanded infernal respect. Not that he’d expected anything less from Crowley’s nemesis. He sighed. Speaking of Crowley, shouldn’t he have received a textual message by now? A voice recording? Even one of those extremely not funny memes?**

** The harder Crowley tried to make his memes anti-humorous and incomprehensible, the more they were shared. Aziraphale felt this was because humans struggled valiantly to find meaning. Crowley was sure it was because humans were perversely proud of their ignorance. As always, the truth was somewhere in between – namely that Warlock had realized the memes were coming from his ex-tutor’s Instagram account and kept forwarding them to the upper-class twits at his school.

“Are breaks allowed in Hell?” he asked.

Hastur shook his head, and from over at the noncirculation desk, Dagon called out, “No, never.”

“Ah, good.” Aziraphale smiled in relief and left his pencil on the floor. Perhaps a walk would allow him to find somewhere he could get the little bar thingys on his phone to fill up.

“You really are a terrible demon, you know that?” Dagon wasn’t looking at him, but Aziraphale got the impression that she wasn’t reading what she pretended to study intently.

“I’m not a demon. Anyway, if breaks aren’t allowed, then I’m flouting the rules by taking one. Ergo, demonic.” He thought Crowley would appreciate that logic. 

Anyway, who was Dagon to impugn Aziraphale’s acting abilities? Crowley didn’t give compliments as a general rule, but he’d been suitably impressed with most of the temptations Aziraphale had performed for him over the years. “Do you know, I think I could do very well as a demon.”

“You gave Crowley holy water,” Hastur growled.

“You foiled Hell’s 6000-year plan,” Dagon said.

“All of which are against the rules, I’d imagine. I’ve made all sorts of trouble for the beings above you, haven’t I?” He tried to put an impish twinkle in his eyes, but it came across more as general moisture.

Still, nobody contradicted him.

He paced the length of the library, holding his phone above his head, hoping it would show some sign of life, only to be disappointed. He’d have to work up the nerve to ignore Beelzebub’s edict that Hastur keep him confined to the library. “Do you suppose Beelzebub would mind terribly if we took a walk?”

“Lord Beelzebub was very specific,” Dagon said. “Don’t let the traitor leave the library, and find out what he knows about demon summoning.”

“I wonder why they won’t let me leave your library?” He tried not to overemphasize “your” and hoped she’d notice.

Dagon didn’t answer directly. Instead, she sang under her breath. When Aziraphale recognized the song, his heart clenched painfully. It was an apocryphal version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” He knew this version’s lyrics:

“No more guessing and questioning  
No more endlessly wrestling  
No more doubt …”

Hadn’t that been exactly what he’d wanted for so many centuries, what he’d prayed for? And how had God answered those prayers? He was in Hell and he didn’t know what was being done to Crowley. He was a traitor to Heaven, the “traitor angel.” The last being to get that title had been Lucifer the Morningstar. 

But he’d tasted the apple of free will of his own accord. He’d known it meant leaving the garden. It was too late to pray for certainty. Doubt was the human condition, and he and Crowley would make it back to Earth together. They would. He could have faith in that, at least, even if all the rest was ineffable. And, well, maybe being the new traitor angel could give him a tiny bit of power here.

“I heard a little about Crowley’s trial.” He kept his eyes trained on the broken spines of the shelved books. “How surprised was Lord Beelzebub? Very?”

Hastur coughed loudly, as if words had gotten stuck in his throat. 

“Lord Beelzebub doesn’t get surprised,” Dagon said. 

“Of course not.” Aziraphale remembered how desperately he’d been thrown out of Hell when he was in Crowley’s corporation. Beelzebub’s expression had remained as impassive as ever, but fear had lurked in their eyes. If Crowley was blamed for Adam averting the apocalypse, who got blamed for Crowley?

“Call it self-interest,” he said, finally daring to look directly at Dagon, “but I’d be sorry if that incident damaged Lord Beelzebub’s standing. I’m sure that would reflect on you, and that would truly be unfortunate. I can see you’ve worked hard to get where you are, and we all know you had nothing to do with the events in Tadfield. Or their aftermath.”

Dagon looked perplexed for just a moment. Hastur shifted from foot to foot. Sympathy and moral support were strangers to these hallowed halls.

Treachery, on the other hand, was at home with its feet up and slippers on.

“How is the Antichrist these days?” Dagon asked conversationally.

“ _Where_ is the Antichrist these days?” Hastur said.

“He’s on Earth where he belongs.” Aziraphale had no intentions of letting anyone get to Adam. “He doesn’t retain any of the powers he gave up willingly.”

Dagon put aside the papers she’d been pretending to read. “You don’t think that. I’m sure he could cause Armageddon any time he chose.”

“Among other things,” Hastur added mysteriously.

“No, not at all. Adam thoroughly renounced Satan and claimed his earthly father. He’s just a normal human boy now.”

“So he can’t start the apocalypse anymore?” Dagon’s voice rose with each syllable.

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale couldn’t risk any confusion on this point. 

Dagon picked up a rubber stamp and began thumping it on the papers at random. Her face was a stormy sea – Aziraphale felt sorry for anyone who tried to return late materials today.**

** Aziraphale forgot: In Hell, It’s Always Too Late.

Hastur grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his demon summoning notes.

“Break’s over,” he said. 

“But… I thought maybe you could show me around.” He smiled. “Unless Lord Beelzebub can’t take any chances in their position. I understand.”

“Sit down and shut up.”

Aziraphale sat and shut. So, they were trying to get Adam to start the apocalypse again. He picked up his fountain pencil, thinking of its inventor with a pang of longing. Oh, he’d never been any good at office politics. If only he could get to Crowley and warn him that Beelzebub was targeting Adam. Even if he could warn that strange witch Anathema, she could at least … well, she was on the scene, anyway, which was more than he could say. But he couldn’t make any phone calls from here. Time to try a different tack.

“This would be much easier if I had my books instead of relying on my memory,” he said.

“Shut your hole.”

“I’m sure Lord Beelzebub meant for me to take them with me from my shop.” 

“It’s not for you to determine what Lord Beezlebub means,” Dagon hissed at him.

What would Crowley do in this position? But that wasn’t fair, Crowley had charisma. Everyone listened to him. Aziraphale felt tears welling up and ruthlessly pushed them down. He didn’t need to be told there was no crying allowed in Hell.

He tried again. “It would only take a moment to pop up to the bookshop. Hastur would accompany me if you like. Nobody would know we were gone.”

But the tenor of the room was changing. Dagon stilled, her arms tucked up in front of her as if subtly standing at attention. A team of psychotherapists couldn’t have determined what emotion lay behind Hastur’s blank stare.

“Lord Beezlebub.” Dagon dipped into a graceful bow as Beelzebub entered the library and prowled their way to Aziraphale’s table. Hastur kicked his chair, and Aziraphale leaped to his feet and immediately regretted it. Well, he’d be damned (probably literally) if he’d bow. A few flies landed on his shoulders, but he refused to flinch. He’d show them how to keep a stiff upper lip. 

Beelzebub took the chair next to him, straddling it backwards. “Well? Get anywhere with your research?”

“No.” Since they were being casual, he sat and threaded his fingers together to stop himself from fidgeting. “If I had the books from my shop, perhaps I could make some progress. Or if I had access to the mobile network.”

Beelzebub grinned. “You got your phone, just az you requested.”

“Quite so.” If he were Crowley, he’d be completely unflappable, so that’s what he’d be.

“Think about it, angel. You don’t belong in Heaven.” They spread their arms wide. “You could be with Crowley for all eternity, and all of thiz could be yourz.”

Dagon thumped … a tail? Best not to speculate. “But, Lord, what about the Antichrist?” she said. “Aziraphale says he’s just a normal boy with no powers.”

“He’s just a normal boy with no powers,” Aziraphale said.

That wiped the smile off their face. “He’z lying. He doez that.” They nodded. “Don’t let him fool you with that pretty mouth. I’ve watched him lie right to Gabriel’z face, right, angel?” They ran a filthy finger down Aziraphale’s jawline, and this time, he couldn’t control his shudder of disgust.

“When was that,” Dagon said, “Lord?”

Beelzebub waved the question away. “Not important. I saw the boy myself at Tadfield Airbase. He had incredible power.”

“He doesn’t any longer,” Aziraphale said.

Beelzebub looked deeply into his eyes. Aziraphale clenched his fists under the table and tried to maintain the eye contact. Angels shouldn’t need to blink, but unfortunately Aziraphale had cultivated the habit centuries ago to blend in, and now he couldn’t stop it.**

** It was more embarrassing considering how many weeks he’d practiced learning the skill, with Crowley, who in those ancient days still felt like his adversary, heckling him that not only was he terrible at it, but that “eyelids are for suckers.” Prophetic words indeed.

“I thought so,” Beelzebub said. “You’re lying.”

Aziraphale always said that the problem with lying was nobody believed you when you told the truth. His mind supplied Crowley’s usual response: that gave you the opportunity to lie more.

He shrugged faux casually. “There’s no reason to take my word for it. Heaven knows that …” He trailed off.

“What?” Beelzebub leaned over the table. “Heaven knowz what?”

“Oh, that’s just an expression. A figure of speech. It doesn’t mean anything, actually. Nothing at all. Was there anything else, Lord?”

The flies buzzed angrily. “No. Don’t leave Hastur’z sight.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hastur and Dagon gave Beelzebub a wide berth as he left the library. Aziraphale successfully fought the urge to break the awkward silence. He was British, after all. He could certainly do awkward silences.

Finally, Dagon oozed closer. “They went to call Gabriel to ask about the Antichrist, I’d bet.”

“What would possess anyone go to Gabriel with their problems?” Aziraphale said. The looks he received from Dagon and Hastur were … oh. Oh. He was bonding with them. He supposed that was helpful, but he’d spent an eternity failing to bond with his angelic cohorts, and he didn’t want to examine why he didn’t have that problem with demons.

“I should’ve been Crowley’s line manager,” Dagon said. “Me. Beelzebub took it from me, and I think it was all so they could fraternize with that silly, superficial Archangel.”

“How do we know if this one’s telling the truth about the Antichrist?” Hastur said.

“We don’t.” Dagon looked him over. “I suppose he wouldn’t be such a terrible demon, but there’s no way in Hell that Beelzebub is giving him my library.” 

Aziraphale resolved to take Dagon’s approval and put it in a steel lockbox in his mind to never be opened again. 

“You know who knows all about the Antichrist,” he said. “Crowley. If I could just get in touch with him in Heaven—”

“What? Crowley’s where?” Dagon’s eyes were as big as saucers.**

** Aziraphale would know as the last being on Earth to use a saucer for only its intended purpose.

“What’s that bastard doing in Heaven when he should be here being tortured?” Hastur growled.

“Hmm, that was Gabriel’s idea.” Damn, he would make a good demon. Damn, damn, damn.

“So now we’re working for Gabriel!” Dagon had forgotten about keeping her voice down. “I wouldn’t have agreed to give this new plan for the apocalypse three days if I’d known it was Gabriel’s plan.”

Aziraphale fought down a scream. Three days to stop the apocalypse. Again. No, less than three days. There was no way of telling for sure when Dagon had agreed to three days, but Aziraphale would bet it ran concurrently to his contract. 

“I’m not agreeing to any plan for the Antichrist that cuts us out of it,” Hastur said.

“Exactly,” Dagon said. “I don’t see how we can win a celestial war if Heaven’s setting the schedule for Armageddon and leaving us in the dark.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue sympathetically. “That’s the way Heaven operates, I’m afraid. They don’t entertain questions.” This was all in service of stopping the apocalypse, of saving Adam from whatever fate Beelzebub and Gabriel had dreamed up. Still, his soul was beginning to feel, if not outright corrupted, at least tarnished. He looked around the library and sighed, wondering if Dagon would let him spend eternity stopping demons from checking out reference materials. Oh, well, in for a penny and all that. “Of course,” he said, “we could become more involved in the process. Stick our oar in, as it were, rather than sitting here waiting for Gabriel to strike.”

“You have a plan,” Dagon said, overestimating him by a mile and then some. “You know you’re destined to Fall, so you planted Crowley in Heaven as a double agent.”

“Yes, everything you said is true.” He nodded and tried to look crafty. “Only I can’t use my phone here to get in touch with him.”

“You won’t get cell service without using a large amount of occult power.”

“Some flash bastard corrupted the network,” Hastur said.**

** Aziraphale found this oddly comforting, like finding a “Good Luck!” note from your mother in your lunchbox after failing a big test. 

“If I let you up to Earth,” Dagon said slowly, “and you find out Gabriel’s plan, how can I trust you to tell us about it?”

Hastur rested a very heavy hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “He’s not going back to Earth without me, is he?”

Aziraphale gulped. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dagon hustled over to the library’s racks of occult maps. “Go to the bookstore, get in touch with Crowley, and come back right away. I’ll keep Beelzebub occupied so they won’t ask any questions.”

“How are you going to do that?” Aziraphale said.

She chuckled. “Oh, I know exactly how to distract Beelzebub. You just find out what Gabriel’s plan is.”

“Don’t worry.” Hastur’s hand tightened around his neck. “I know where we’re going and why. Believe me, I’ll be in charge of the traitor angel.”

“See that you are,” Dagon said briskly. “Between you and me, Aziraphale, I don’t care if we ever have an apocalypse. But handing my library over to an angel on Gabriel’s say so?” Her eyes glittered malevolently. “I think it’s time for a change in management.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been so relieved to see the bookshop in one piece since the Notmageddeon … three weeks ago! They really should’ve taken a longer holiday.

Relief was extremely short lived. The phone rang when he called Crowley’s number, but nobody answered. And there were no voice or textual messages from Crowley, either. Something was wrong. This feeling wasn’t Aziraphale’s normal level of anxiety; he knew in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones, in the fabric of his soul, that Crowley was in trouble. 

There was one way to drag him back from Heaven, but Aziraphale couldn’t pull it off himself. Crowley had always been more powerful than he was. Attempting a demon summoning of Crowley on his own without days of preparation would be a futile gesture, and he didn’t have days. He needed Crowley now.

Although he had grown accustomed to Hastur’s smell in Hell, it was overpowering in the bookshop, and it assaulted him as Hastur grabbed him and yanked him close.

“We’re not here to make phone calls,” he said.

“We aren’t? I – I thought Dagon said I should get in touch with Crowley about Gabriel’s –“

“Screw Crowley and screw Gabriel. I want to talk to the Antichrist.”

“But I thought we’d established rapport.”

Hastur pulled his arm behind his back, stretching it to the breaking point. Pain shot through his body, and he clenched his teeth. So, yes, rapport had been a stupid claim.

“Antichrist. Right now,” Hastur said, his breath causing Aziraphale to shut down his olfactory organs. “Take us to that Tadfield Airfield Beelzebub mentioned.”

It was his responsibility to protect Adam from Hastur. But Tadfield … that was a thought. That witch Anathema was there. She was a descendant of Agnes Nutter powerful enough to help stop Armageddon. No, he couldn’t bring Hastur to Adam. But how could he stop the apocalypse again without Crowley? He couldn’t do it by himself. He’d tried to do it by himself last time, and look at what a terrible idea that had been.

He heard a crack, and agony threatened to take his consciousness. Hastur had pulled his arm back at an unnatural angle. He slammed Aziraphale against a bookcase, rattling the back of his skull. When he was sure Aziraphale’s eyes were open, he held a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face, letting each finger light up with hellfire.

“That, that, that doesn’t affect me,” Aziraphale said, struggling for enough saliva to talk.

“Maybe not,” Hastur said, “but it would be fun.”

“Alright!” he said. “Alright. Just let me get a few things for the trip.”

“No tricks, traitor, or I’ll discorporate you on the spot and let Heaven sort you out.”

He’d have to keep Hastur close by, away from Adam, while he found Anathema. It would be difficult to distract Crowley’s nemesis.**

**Again, not Crowley’s nemesis.

It could possibly work. It wasn’t as if he had any better ideas. Or even one single other idea. First he healed his arm. Then he grabbed a couple of his older demon summoning texts – he’d collected the ones that affected Crowley long ago and could locate them without really looking. And just in case he never made it back to the bookshop, he took the lockbox from behind the shelf of twelfth century philosophers.

The Bentley was parked exactly where Aziraphale expected it to be, right in front of the bookshop. As he opened the driver’s door, Hastur leaned away.

“Oh, no,” Hastur said. “I’m not getting in that thing again.”

“I hardly blame you,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “But I assure you, I can’t drive anything like Crowley does.”

Mollified, Hastur took the passenger side of the car. Aziraphale got in behind the wheel. Crowley never let him do this, which was just fine with Aziraphale, who’d much rather not have to resort to it. He tapped the steering wheel. “Please, dear, take us to Tadfield.” He projected his fear that Crowley had been captured and bound from his mind to the car, feeling very hopeful and only slightly ridiculous. 

The engine roared alive as what Aziraphale was reasonably certain was Queen blared from the speakers.

“What are you doing?” Hastur yelled as the Bentley accelerated and narrowly dodged the cars parked alongside the road. “You said you don’t drive like Crowley!”

“I said I can’t. I don’t know how to drive.” He took his hands off the steering wheel. There was nothing he could do to help until they arrived in Tadfield.

At least Hastur’s screams of terror were a little satisfying. As long as they weren’t the last thing he’d have to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics are from The Saints I by Dirt Poor Robins, an excellent addition to any Good Omens playlist.
> 
> Have a peaceful holiday, and dream about whatever you like best. <3


	11. River of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it was going so well for Gabriel, he miscalculates, and it all blows up in his face. Not that it’s entirely his own fault, although Beelzebub would hate to claim responsibility. No, honestly, that wasn’t sarcasm.

There were many entrances to the Underworld. Long ago, one had to travel to Athens to find one, but these were the days of myriad unoriginal commercial reboots.**

** Entirely Hell’s fault. Crowley’s commendation for the reboot dated back to putting Will Shakespeare up to Romeo and Juliet – he had to suffer through all those performances, which definitely did not bring tears to his eyes, and invented the term out of boredom. Had he realized how Mammon’s finance bros would run with the concept, he never would’ve filed the report. 

Reboots meant increased opportunities for Thor and the gang to move among the humans, and that meant more entrances to the Underworld, which was perfect for Gabriel. The Underworld was directly adjacent to Hell, but obviously Gabriel couldn’t cut through Hell.**

** In Hell, shortcuts only prolong the agony.

Hades’ kingdom was at the outer bounds of the ocean, so Gabriel decided to enter through Atlantic City, New Jersey. He brought a coin for the ferryman and three chewy toys for Cerberus: a fish-shaped one, a bone-shaped one, and, just to cheer himself up, a snake-shaped one. He stopped in town long enough to give out some blessings to the innocent – an extremely brief task, but there were a few children whose parents had left them to loiter on the boardwalk outside the casinos, and even some not trying to sell him loose cigarettes. Then he found the abandoned amusement park fun house, the one near the rock shaped like a clown’s head, and took the slide to the front gates of the Underworld.**

** The Greek gods like to think they have a sense of humor.

Cerberus was easy enough thanks to the chew toys. Long ago, the three-headed hound had been a threat, but since antiquity, he’d been dragged back and forth by little g gods and demons and heroes and film producers so many times that he tended to keep out of everyone’s business. Gabriel was slightly worried that Cerberus might’ve heard a rumor about Crowley’s trial – Cerberus was part serpent, after all, and might have some affinity for the traitor demon. Fortunately, it took a lot to interest dogs in rumors, and Cerberus was happily oblivious.**

**Dogs don’t pay attention to rumors that don’t involve food or mates, and Crowley did not yet at this point qualify as either.

That left Charon, the ferryman demon. He was a tall, gaunt immortal with a bushy, untended beard and an absolutely filthy loincloth. His eyes were pools of flame. He wielded his boatman’s pole like a quarterstaff. None of this was intimidating to an Archangel. Still, there were procedures to follow, and Gabriel didn’t want to attract undue attention by going off book. The obol tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket rubbed against the small pet water bottle. He approached Charon at his post by the River Styx and bowed, then held out the coin for the traditional bribe. Unsurprisingly, the demon took the obol and bit it. Honestly, 99% of demons were annoyingly predictable.**

** That made Beelzebub and Crowley the one percenters – the annoyingly unpredictable.

“Need a ride?” Charon asked. 

“No, just passing by.” Gabriel was brusque, hoping to avoid conversation. “Looking for the Lethe River.”

“Ah, the River of Forgetfulness.” 

Gabriel waited for directions, but that was apparently all he was getting. What a waste of a good obol.

“We don’t see Archangels down here often,” Charon said.

Gabriel smiled stiffly. “You know, I’ll find it myself, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

Which Gabriel did as a general rule. He decided it would suit him to walk as far from Charon’s raft as he could, mostly to get upwind from the smell of greasy loincloth. The Underworld was dark, dank, and rank, and the only sound he could hear was rushing water. Why was everywhere in Hell and on Earth these days so damn humid?**

** Gabriel’s belief that everywhere on modern Earth was humid was a consequence of always being forced to visit London or, lately, Washington DC. Back in the good old days in Jerusalem, humidity hadn’t been a problem, which had been nice because the damp wrinkled his clothes and did terrible things to his hair. Huh, that nonexistent holiday with Beelzebub is practically planning itself.

Someone forbid the gods post a sign or two indicating which river was which. As it was, he had to wind around pomegranate trees, bubbling springs, and scuttling giant scarab beetles. Weren’t giant scarab beetles Egyptian, not Greek? No doubt the most recent crop of summer blockbuster directors was screwing up the continuity. If only they didn’t insist on shooting on location. Finally, Gabriel summoned a map. 

Soon he found the Lethe River, a brackish, slow-flowing, meandering stream under dark poplars. He squatted and filled up the small pet water bottle. This would be perfect for clipping to the side of Crowley’s terrarium. Maybe after the apocalypse, he’d get a pet for his office. Not a snake, though. Maybe a cute little gerbil. Come to think of it, he should do that before the apocalypse – after would likely be too late.

“Pzzzzzt, Gabriel.”

He whipped his head around. That hadn’t sounded like Charon. It had sounded buzzy. A large fly landed on his sleeve, and Gabriel smiled.

“So you decided to come,” he said. “Hey, where are you?”

“Shhh, be quiet.” Beelzebub was hiding behind a tall pomegranate shrub. Or was it a short pomegranate tree? Not important. What was important was that Beelz had showed up after all. They probably couldn’t resist a chance to get out of the office, although they were acting unnecessarily cloak and dagger about it.**

** See? Annoyingly unpredictable.

Maybe being mysterious was part of the fun, and Gabriel was always up for fun. He shuffled sideways to the shrub, keeping his eyes on the river. 

“Should we have a code word?” he said out of the side of his mouth.

“What are you talking about, you idiot?” Beelz said. “No. Don’t tell me, I don’t care. We have a big problem.”

Gabriel drew himself up. So, not a visit for fun then. A visit for insults. “Maybe you have a big problem. I’m doing great. See?” He shook the full water bottle.

“I got a headz up from Dagon. You’re being followed.”

“Well, yeess,” Gabriel said, “I can see you following me.”

The flies whined impatiently. “Ugh, not by me. By the angelz opposed to the apocalypse.”

“There are no angels opposed to the apocalypse,” he said firmly. “The apocalypse is God’s will. Maybe there are apostate demons opposed to the apocalypse –“

“No self-respecting demon would be against the destruction of the world,” they said. 

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Dagon came to my office and told me she’d heard you were about to be waylaid by a group of rogue angelz.”

Gabriel made a show of looking from left to right. “I don’t see any rogue angels. Unless you count as one.” Something occurred to him. “Wait, were you worried about me? Is that why you’re here?”

They narrowed their eyes. “What was that thing you shook at me?”

“Ah.” Beelz would love this. He held up the water bottle. “Crowley turned into a small snake to escape a horde of interrogating angels, so I put him in a terrarium on my desk, and now I’m going to feed him this.”

They flung their arms out dramatically. “You absolute moron. You’re going to wipe his memoriez in hiz snake form? What if he doesn’t remember how to turn back to hiz human form?”

Gabriel gritted his perfect teeth. Absolute moron was definitely an overreaction. “May I remind you that I’m the one doing all the work in this scheme. And who cares if he’s a snake or not?”

“I care! Your sugary traitor angel carez! The Antichrist iz going to care, I’ll tell you that.”

“Oh, so now we all care about Crowley.” The pressure had been building and building with this stupid plan, his jaw muscles hurt from clenching, his shoulder blades itched like crazy, and Beelzebub hadn’t been worried about anyone but themselves. “And what’s with your Aziraphale fetish? Because you didn’t have this thing for him when the end of the world started back in Tadfield.”

“Fetish?” The flies reversed course and whipped around Gabriel’s head. “Appreciating that not every angel is az dense as a sack of cement kittenz isn’t a fetish.” **

** Although they no longer oversaw that department, Beelzebub knew fetishes well. Good similes, not so much.

“I think I’m beginning to see your real plan, fiend. You’ve always been playing to claim Aziraphale for yourself.”

Beelzebub shrugged, a casual maneuver that catapulted a spike of rage behind Gabriel’s right eye. “I like the taste of his anger. It’z human-like. Hot and personal.”

Gabriel could see it as clearly in his mind as if it had actually happened: Beelzebub sitting with Aziraphale in the bookshop, leaning over him, smelling the flowery, organic aura Aziraphale possessed, and licking their lips, and moving closer, and reaching out to touch...

“What’s wrong with my anger?” He stepped close to Beelzebub and loomed over them, letting rage flow into his aura, bubbling over the solidity of his corporation. He could feel his eyes glow, could hear his voice deepen and echo. “It isn’t personal enough for you?”

Beelzebub was forced to look up to meet his eyes. “That … that’z personal.”

“You’re damn right it’s personal.” In fact, it felt very different than angelic righteousness. He didn’t want to smite Beelzebub as much as he wanted to pick them up by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into them, or shake some thoughts of tasty, sugary things out of them.

“I didn’t,” Beelzebub swallowed, “I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

“I think we’ve established you have no idea what I’m capable of, sunshine.” He knew that “sunshine” was going to piss them off and capped it off by turning his back on them. Oh, they were going to _hate_ that. Sure enough, it evoked a snarl of malice that warmed Gabriel’s heart.

“I came here at considerable risk to warn you,” they said. “Now you’re playing gamez. And you’re ruining the plan.”

Gabriel could shrug too. “Because it’s a terrible plan. I’m better off on my own.”

He couldn’t resist turning back around to see their face, but when he was met by their expression, his stomach dropped. They weren’t incandescent with fury – instead they had wide, glassy eyes, an open mouth, shallow breaths. Something about it stuck the words in his throat into a gooey lump.

But their expression changed instantly. “Shit. Shit. We’re not alone,” they said. They grabbed Gabriel’s sleeve and pulled him towards their hiding place behind the shrub slash tree.

Gabriel heard something approaching with a sound like a wet mop. He ducked down as best he could. There wasn’t a lot of room for hiding. Beelzebub had a tendency to forget how convenient their small corporation could be. He pushed closer to them. The river trickled out a dense heat that made him uncomfortable. His breath was steam against Beelzebub’s back, and he stopped himself from breathing altogether.

Dagon roamed the cavern of the Underworld, only pausing to kick a giant beetle out of the way. She had her cell phone out, and she split her attention between the screen and scanning her surroundings. So, there weren’t any apostate angels. Either Beelzebub was here trying to dodge Dagon, or this whole thing was a setup and Beelzebub was pretending to dodge Dagon to make Gabriel feel sorry for them. In either case, they had lied.

Of course they had lied. They were a demon. This was why angels weren’t supposed to be friends with demons – it was impossible.

Just before Dagon disappeared from view around a bend of the riverbank, she put her phone to her ear. Gabriel heard her say, “They’re not here. At least I can’t find either of them.” 

Which made it crystal clear that Dagon was looking for someone other than solely Beelzebub. Gabriel had been sold down the river. And not the Lethe River. This was the creek where you got stuck with no paddles, and Gabriel wasn’t ever going to forget it.

“The next time I see you,” he hissed, “it had better be across a battlefield before I smite you to oblivion.”

“Not if I see you first.” **

**Beelzebub would spend the next hour extremely angry at themselves for not having a better comeback. Later, they’d work out the perfect response and type “Gabriel: AHJK! :P XXX” into their phone’s Reminders, only to forget it and not be able to decipher the cryptic reminder. 

He stood up straight and pulled on the seams of his suit jacket. “I don’t have time for this. I have an apocalypse to start without your help.”

The flies hovered in the air, humming menacingly. “You haven’t been able to get your head out of your azz for the last 6000 yearz without my help.”

“Ciao, Bug.” That was fun to say, not that he was about to share that with Crowley. 

He walked back to the entrance to Atlantic City, being careful not to walk so fast that Beelzebub thought he might be in a hurry. He had much longer legs, so it wasn’t like they could catch up. And he had all the time in the world, which could be measured in days if he could get Crowley’s memories wiped and convince him to goad the Antichrist. Just like Crowley would’ve done the first time around if Beelzebub had been competent. 

Right before he left the Underworld, he called Beelzebub’s number.

They picked up on the first ring. “Already lost?” they said in their bored voice.

“Nope. I just needed to do this.” 

“Do—” 

Gabriel hung up. He could hear Beelzebub’s rage scream even at a distance, and it made him smile despite the weird, echoing emptiness in his chest cavity.

Back in Heaven, back in his office, Gabriel clipped the water bottle to Crowley’s habitat. Crowley lifted his head and hissed but barely moved besides that. 

“Who’s a sleepy demon then?” Gabriel asked. His office was as hot as Hell, metaphorically speaking. “You thirsty yet?”

Crowley stuck his tongue out. It belatedly occurred to Gabriel that he didn’t know how long snakes could go without water. Days? Weeks? Damn Beelzebub and their “Aziraphale said 72 hours is a month.” Aziraphale said this, Aziraphale said that.

“Haven’t I heard enough from Aziraphale over the millennia?” he said. 

The snake laughed at him, which was disconcerting to say the least.

“It’s all fine for you,” Gabriel told him. “You don’t have to worry about doing the right thing. Heck, you don’t worry about anything at all, do you?”

Crowley thrashed his tail and shook his head.**

** Crowley could talk perfectly well in snake form – he obviously hadn’t tempted Eve using sign language – but he didn’t intend to let Gabriel know that. The belief structures of Heaven and Hell were complex, but nowhere near as complex as Crowley’s personal beliefs surrounding the asking and answering of questions.

Gabriel collapsed in his desk chair. Angels didn’t sleep, but Gabriel’s thoughts began to lose their linear form. His office wasn’t usually so warm. He gently wound his scarf over the back of his chair and fidgeted with the finely woven cloth, his consciousness drifting. Beelzebub had gone after him in the Underworld. They had lied about why – there were no rogue angels against the apocalypse, what a ridiculous idea – but that left Gabriel wondering what the real reason had been. Unless Beelz had been tricked by Dagon. No. Not possible. He closed his eyes. There had been something familiar about the whole encounter. Concealing themselves from someone approaching. Gabriel yawned. Something gave him a sense of déjà vu. Giant beetles? No. Dagon and her phone? No. 

Just as his thoughts lost all sense of words and dissolved into flashes of images, he was struck by a blinding light. A sound like the ringing of a cathedral’s bell brought him down on his hands and knees, blinded, deafened, shaking, completely adrift. He couldn’t feel his corporation anymore. Everything was darkness.

Then, as if he’d opened his eyes a crack – although he hadn’t – there was a tiny glimmer of light. It grew larger.

“Gabriel.”

It was an angel with strikingly dark blue eyes, the most beautiful angel he’d ever seen. He knew the angel didn’t have a message for him. First of all, that was his job, thank you very much. Secondly, even though he didn’t remember ever seeing this angel before and didn’t know their name, he knew instantly who it was.

“Gabriel, come and see! Aren’t they beautiful?”

This was an old, old memory, one older than the world. This was a memory from before the Fall.

Sure enough, he was looking out from inside the old Gabriel, who wore flowing white robes and sandals with golden wings. The other angel smiled at him. It was a kind smile in a face glittering with gold freckles. Their white wings shone with an overlay of just noticeable iridescent rainbow colors. Dozens of butterflies surrounded the other angel, wings in oranges, yellows, greens. A violet winged butterfly alit on old Gabriel’s hand. 

This memory was painful. It was beautiful and it hurt too much. He wanted it to stop.

“You know you’re not allowed to create them,” old Gabriel said. 

Shut up! he screamed without sound at old Gabriel. Stop talking and grab them and make them stop!

But he couldn’t change the past.

“I don’t see why She gave me the ability to create them if She didn’t want me to use it.”

“Michael’s coming over here! Hide those things!”

“Hmmmph,” the beautiful angel said. “Maybe I’ll ask Michael why I’m not allowed to make them.”

“Don’t do it,” old Gabriel warned. “She doesn’t like it when we ask questions like that.”

The butterflies disappeared. “So what’s the difference between just wondering things and asking questions?” They blew out a breath and pouted.

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know, and neither should you.”

“But I like to know things.”

“You’re too smart for your own good. I hope you got rid of all those creatures.”

The blue-eyed angel looked thoughtful, and Gabriel realized he knew how this story ended. Somewhere a violet butterfly that they couldn’t bear to destroy winged its way past the other archangels. Questions would be asked, and Gabriel would answer them honestly, just as an angel should. Just as he always would.

There were no more voices echoing in his ears. She had Gifted him with a true memory, and it was over. He was left with the aftermath of a divine revelation, a burning pain that seared his soul, devouring him from the inside out. He curled into a ball on the floor and waited for the aftershocks to stop tearing him apart.

“Gabriel? Gabriel?”

After hours that felt like years, someone’s voice brought him back to the present. Michael. Of course. She knelt over him, calling his name. He straightened up, reassured her, got to his feet.

To his complete surprise, she enveloped him in a hug.

“What’s this about?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“All we have to do is accept Her will,” she said. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

He planted his hands on his desk to steady himself, catching a glimpse of Crowley. The snake was asleep, the water bottle near him just about empty.

“He drank it,” Gabriel said. He had succeeded. Although he wished he’d used the water on himself, to drown the new memory out of his consciousness forever.

Michael raised her eyebrows. “I hope that wasn’t holy water?”

“No, of course not. It wouldn’t work on him even if it had been holy water, right?” He tapped the terrarium. Crowley rolled his coils over, still sleeping, his memories of Aziraphale completely wiped. Lucky snake.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?” Michael said kindly. “I’m sure we can work through it together. I know you’re not happy the apocalypse was called off, but forgiveness is one of Her favorite virtues.”

“Forgiveness?” He stared at Michael in disbelief. There was no forgiveness here, not for their kind, and there never would be.

“The apocalypse hasn’t been called off,” he said coldly. “The world is ending. We’re done talking about this. May Her will be done.”

Michael stepped away from him, her face turning to stone. “May Her will done.”

She left with too much unsaid, but Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to care. He was no longer a mere messenger, and too powerful these days for her to toss him out of Heaven over policy disagreements. He had the plan to execute. It was time to turn Crowley over to Beelzebub. Only Gabriel no longer felt like doing that. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to face Beelzebub at all.

He would, though. The world wasn’t going to destroy itself.**

** Well, it would eventually, but not soon enough for Gabriel’s purposes.

He needed an hour or two to recover. Then he’d call Beelzebub. He just couldn’t do it right this second. He needed … he needed to pray. 

It was a law of the universe, above, below, and in between, that whenever we need a few minutes to get our heads on straight, we are most likely to be interrupted. Uriel and Sandalphon burst into his office without even the barest of greetings. Uriel put her hand on his shoulder. It didn’t feel reassuring.

“Uriel?” he asked, but she refused to make eye contact. A hot, floaty feeling of dread worked its way from his gut to his overloaded brain.

“He’s ready,” Sandalphon called into the corridor. 

Somehow, Gabriel was unsurprised when Sandalphon grabbed his other shoulder. And Michael coming back into his office also managed not to shock him. He noticed that her hair was falling out of its elaborate pinned up style and her jacket had been abandoned. But there was no hesitation in her voice.

“Tell us about Beelzebub’s plan for the apocalypse,” she ordered.

Ah, the reason She had given him a true memory came clear. He never should’ve doubted, not for an instant. God always remembered Gabriel.

“Never,” he said defiantly.

Michael recoiled as if he had spit in her face. Uriel gasped, and Sandalphon’s fingers tightened on Gabriel’s arm. The drama of the moment was only slightly deflated by serpentine snoring.**

**There is some debate as to whether snakes can snore. Snakes usually make noise for one of four reasons: to claim territory, to attract a mate, to communicate with other snakes, or in defense as a threat display. None of these reasons seem to cover demons playing snake, or demons playing snake playing possum.

“Archangel Gabriel,” Michael intoned, “I am accusing you of conspiring against God’s Ineffable Plan with the Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub.”

“God’s Ineffable Plan?” Suddenly, he was much less certain, and his thoughts were pulled into an undercurrent of images of his trips to Earth with Beelzebub. “That – that – There is no ineffable plan. Aziraphale made that up!” 

He tried to fling an arm out to indicate the traitor Crowley, but Uriel restrained him. Instead, he yelled, “Ask Crowley, he’ll tell you that he and Aziraphale invented the whole thing.”

“Oh, we plan to question Crowley about Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said.

The snake bellied up to the water bottle and drank the remains eagerly. Gabriel closed his eyes against the yawning absence of certainty. Crowley’s memories had been wiped, and Aziraphale was trapped in Hell. Nobody could listen to them babble about the ineffable plan they’d invented, ever again. From now on, the ineffable plan was whatever Michael said it was.

He smiled. “You know, maybe we should all sit down and talk about this.”

“I thought we were done talking,” Michael said.

Being remembered by God was never supposed to be comforting. Belatedly, Gabriel realized that true comfort was praying to God and not expecting a direct answer.

But God never forgot Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying the holidays! It was so fun to write as Gabriel and Beelz, I'm thinking of doing another. Next chapter will be up Monday, back on schedule.
> 
> I love your comments and kudos! Thanks!


	12. Nothing Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chekov’s Demon Summoning is a dramatic principle that states that, if demon summoning is mentioned in the first act, then in the following act, the demon must be summoned, even if it is in violation of Aziraphale and Crowley’s contracts.

Tadfield, since Adam Young had lost his powers, was a typical, average English town. The weather on this particular day was perfect, but that didn’t have to mean anything. Some days, the wind just happens to be light, the sky just happens to be cloudless, and the temperature just happens to be cool enough for biking without being cold. Probably the most unusual aspect of Tadfield life was that a witch continued to rent Jasmine Cottage, and she couldn’t explain why. 

It had a little to do with her boyfriend, who supposedly had a home in London but hadn’t found a compelling reason to go back there. It had a lot more to do with her own sense of being unmoored from any purpose. She told her mother she was on vacation, but she spent most of her time napping and avoiding any sources of news in the village. Anathema Device had, in the past three weeks, burned documents from the past that were supposed to bind her to the future, gotten drunk on overpriced wine, fallen asleep on the couch with her head in Newt Pulsiver’s lap, and walked through the cottage’s garden while obsessively checking up on people through her phone. If she could’ve transformed into a snake in order to sleep for a few days, she would have done that, too.**

** Fortunately, Newt was the least demanding person she’d ever met; otherwise, she might’ve been checking off the “sign ill-advised new contracts” task on the recovery list.

Newt rarely left the cottage. His memories of the Apocadidn’t weren’t as clear as Anathema’s, but Adam’s almost daily visits to the cottage were enough to keep him in a perpetual state of walking on eggshells. Newt liked Adam, he really did, but Adam made him nervous. Anathema was reassuring, but Adam made her nervous, too. Still, as long as she was in Jasmine Cottage, she’d be keeping an eye on Adam Young and the Them. And she definitely wasn’t in Jasmine Cottage waiting for a prophecy to turn up and tell her what to do next, she told herself.

And she believed that, too, until she looked out the front window one day and watched the Bentley pull up in front of the cottage.

“Crap,” she said as she realized she’d been waiting for this. “The angel and the demon are back.”

Newt was eating a weird British cheese snack, and he spit crumbs all over his maroon sweater.**

**She wasn’t going to call it a jumper. She was an American over age 18 and didn’t want to adopt twee British slang like Madonna. Although her parents had been very approving of the Harry Potter books and wanted her to dress and talk like Hermione Granger every Halloween, which Anathema always found too meta.

That was the same angel from the airbase walking to the door – she recognized the strange walk, as if he was on a straight track, his body perfectly still despite the large books he carried. But the man – being – _creature_ with him was not the sarcastic demon she remembered. It staggered out of the antique car and kicked dirt onto it. 

She opened the door and was immediately buffered by a smell that reminded her of horse farms. Newt came up behind her. “Ugh, smells like an overflowing sewer,” he said. “I suppose they’re here for the book we burned.”

It hadn’t occurred to Anathema that anyone would show up looking for the second book of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies. It had seemed not only a victimless crime but a secret one. It had been a fun feeling – most of Anathema’s life had been read about by her ancestors before she’d been born. They even knew about Newt beforehand. A secret had been thrilling.

The angel smiled at her so fondly that her irritation completely disappeared. This angel only wanted the best for her, she was sure. 

The part of her brain that observed her first thoughts wanted to know how she could be so sure.

“Hello, dear.” The angel handed her two books with bumpy leather covers. “Anathema. It’s wonderful to see you looking so well.”

Anathema scanned the hand-tooled titles of the antique books and felt a giddy relief when she didn’t see her ancestor’s name. That was quickly followed by annoyance over her refuge being interrupted. The angel crinkled his eyes, and Anathema found herself in the odd position of fighting to hold onto her annoyance.

“I’m Aziraphale,” the angel said. Anathema remembered that now. Aziraphale, and the demon was Crowley, and had the actual Archangel Gabriel shown up at one point? God, she hoped not. “I don’t mean to pry into how much you remember about, well –“

“The end of the world?” Anathema said. 

Aziraphale nodded. “A stressful time for us all.”

Anathema thought stress was a human trait and was not at all comforted to know angels felt it, too. 

Meanwhile, the angel’s companion, a being with a matte black aura who wore a trench coat, joined him at the door. He screeched suddenly and looked up. The horseshoe above the door glowed bright red. 

“Anyway, if you could just assist me with the summoning circle, that would be grand.” Aziraphale said. His expression was bright and eager, but he kept twisting his hands around each other nervously.

“Summoning circle?” Newt asked. “Is it to summon the book we burned?”

For a moment, anger twisted on Aziraphale’s face, and Anathema felt something like a splash of freezing cold water in her head. 

Aziraphale smiled again, this time less certainly. “I beg your pardon. I must have heard you incorrectly.”

“Never mind that,” Anathema said. “Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry, dear. I suppose I’m overdoing it a bit. It’s just that I’m worried about Crowley.”

“The demon?” She knew the answer, but she needed to stall for time to recover from Aziraphale’s compellingly bright aura. 

“Oh, good, you remember. He’s trapped somewhere, I think. You see, I’m usually able to sense where he is. Came in handy when we were running up against each other as adversaries for so long. He’s quite ingenious, I needed every trick I could muster to thwart him.” The angel was definitely rambling, but Anathema couldn’t imagine interrupting him. “Although I suppose I shouldn’t call it a trick. But I know where he is now, so that’s not really the problem.”

She read the titles of the books: _Expert Deamonology_ (complete with amateur spelling) and _The Summoning of Fiends_. 

“You want to summon a demon,” she said. “Crowley. So you’re here to … see … me?”

Aziraphale looked confused. The thing was – nobody ever wanted to see her. They wanted to hear what Agnes had to say. Even her parents wanted to hear her parrot prophecies. Maybe, she thought, there was a prophecy somewhere about her summoning demons. That must be it.

The creature with the black aura snarled. “Where’s the Antichrist? Tell me now.”

Newt squeaked and stepped in front of Anathema, which was kind of cute. She wondered if she and Newt had been meant to remember Adam was the Antichrist. It was so hard to figure out situations like this without an annotated index.

“Now, now, your Disgrace, this is Tadfield,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t sense the Antichrist?”

“No,” the creature said.**

** She supposed it wasn’t really a creature since it could talk. Her mind started to describe it in Agnes’s Ye Olde English – skin of rot and eye of shark – and she forced herself to stop.

“The Antichrist would be the most powerful occult force in the world,” Aziraphale said. “Surely, if he were here, you’d be able to sense him.”

The creature poked Aziraphale in the chest. “I don’t trust you.”

As if it explained anything, Aziraphale explained, “I’m working with Hell right now.”

Anathema weighed the books and weighed her options. “I suppose I’m meant to be here to summon Crowley from—”

“Heaven,” Aziraphale said. The mystery demon snarled again.

“Huh,” Newt said. “With all the demons you turn up with, not to mention the Antichrist, I’m starting to wonder if I’m on the right side.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “That’s a simple question, really. Whose side to you want to be by for the rest of your life?”

Anathema couldn’t bring herself to look at Newt’s face, but she felt him tap her hand, and then grip her fingers in a warm, tight hold. Her cheeks heated and her heart stuttered in her chest.

“There, see? You’re on her side.” The angel’s whole body wiggled with sympathetic joy. “Also, in the future, dear boy, you’d worry much less over the state of your immortal soul—” He cleared his throat – “if you stopped burning books.”

“It was a one time thing, I swear!” Newt cried.

“Well, I hope I never have to mention it again.” Aziraphale looked up at the glowing horseshoe burning a brand into the cottage. “Can I come inside?”

“Is the Antichrist inside?” the mystery demon said, in a voice that made Anathema finally realize the meaning of the phrase “like someone walked over my grave.”

“Oh, we’ll have to do something with Duke Hastur to keep him occupied.”

The creature named Duke Hastur suddenly darted at her with surprising speed, slamming her up against the outer wall. The books tumbled to the ground. His stench made her eyes water. He flicked a bloody finger, and fire sprang from it. She refused to look away despite the fight or flight adrenaline flooding her veins. Newt pulled at the demon’s coat. Newt wasn’t a slight man and could be deceptively strong, but he didn’t move Duke Hastur a fraction of an inch. 

“Where is he?” Duke Hastur bent down to hiss in her face. “Where’s the Antichrist?”

The angel produced his pure white wings, and the late afternoon sunlight slanted through them, giving them a red-tinged glow. “Hastur,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Oi, it is the angel!” Anathema’s heart sank. Count on Adam Young to turn up exactly wherever he shouldn’t. “Hey, Anathema. Hey, Newt. Whatcha doing?”

She and the ducal demon turned to see Adam on his bicycle, his feet on the pavement keeping the bike still, Dog barking madly by the front tire. Hastur dropped her to lope over to Adam, and she lunged to stop him, her heart pushing into her throat. Aziraphale extended his wings as if to encircle the demon, and Newt yelled something incomprehensible and grabbed her arm. It all happened in seconds, and Adam never stopped grinning.

Anathema pushed through a scratchy wall of white feathers and threw her arms around Hastur’s neck. He shrugged her off like a loose scarf. “Adam!” she screamed as she fell to the sidewalk.

Dog’s desperate barks faded to indignant yips as Hastur bowed to Adam. The bow was so deep, it was practically a curtsey. Hastur’s forehead almost touched the ground. “Your majesty,” he said.

If Hastur was a Duke, did that make Adam a King?

Anathema tried to remember prophecies from her index cards about kings on bicycles, or white feathers, or rotting fire demons, or just one fucking clue about what was happening, and she couldn’t come up with one goddamn thing.

She stood and brushed off her broomstick skirt. It wasn’t a good use of time to ask Hastur for an apology, but Aziraphale at least looked embarrassed, his cheeks flushed and his gaze skipping away from what she hoped was her piercing glare. He tucked his wings away with a ripple in space-time that made Newt moan.

Adam got off his bike and balanced it on the kickstand. Anathema was thankful the rest of the Them hadn’t accompanied him, but Adam tended to come to Jasmine Cottage alone. Before today, she’d thought he was afraid that she or Newt would remind Adam’s friends of the day the world almost ended, but now, she realized Adam had been expecting something like Hastur to turn up. He certainly didn’t look surprised, and he clapped for Hastur to straighten up. Aziraphale stepped closer, but too slowly for Anathema’s peace of mind.

“Perhaps we should stay outside where we can watch Hastur,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. Were angels supposed to look so apprehensive? She didn’t think so. Angels should be sure of everything. “I can mask us from any passersby, I think. That’s really more Crowley’s forte, but. There! That should do it.”

Hastur kneeled on the sidewalk in supplication. 

“Newton, would you mind keeping an eye on Duke Hastur? We’ll draw a summoning circle here on the pavement. Just interrupt us if you need us. Oh, wait, we’ll need—”

“Candles, I know.” Anathema ran into the cottage and ransacked the cabinet where they kept the storm preparedness paraphernalia. She’d never tried to summon a demon before, but she was a witch. She knew the basics. Huh, maybe Aziraphale was here to see her after all. He didn’t seem pleased that Adam had turned up. Maybe he was actually here to speak to Anathema, even if she didn’t have a book for him.

Before long, she and Aziraphale had drawn a summoning circle on the pavement with pink chalk and lit the candles. 

“Oh, look, Hastur, they’re lilac scented,” Aziraphale said.

“Fits for that one,” Hastur growled. The menace seemed to have left him completely, and he sat on the ground at Adam’s feet. Adam himself was absorbed in the drawing of the circle and the symbols Anathema and Aziraphale copied from _The Summoning of Fiends_. 

“Are we doing something wrong teaching him how to summon demons?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Newt said. “What side are we on again?”

“Each other’s,” she said. As far as she could tell, Adam didn’t have any occult power left. If an actual angel wasn’t worried about it, she’d have to put her reservations out of her mind.

Not that the angel wasn’t exuding worry. It just wasn’t for Adam. “The thing is that Crowley is a very powerful demon. I’m hoping that with you helping me, it will be enough. Although maybe Duke Hastur would be willing to help?”

Hastur’s laughter was very dread inducing. If that was what he was going for, he was right on point. “Demons don’t help angels,” he said.

“Go help him,” Adam said in his happy-go-lucky manner.

“Yes, my Lord.” Hastur leaped up, bowed, and scurried over to the circle. 

The words for the summoning spell were in a language much older than Latin, one that Anathema had never heard of, and she’d had quite the international upbringing. Fortunately, Aziraphale told her that the author of _The Summoning of Fiends_ was more of a wizard than a wordsmith, and she could just sound out the author’s very literal spelling.**

** Yes, he said it in those words. Despite his earlier overbearing sense of goodness accidentally warping her emotions, she found herself rather liking Aziraphale. And also hoping she’d never see him again.

Newt darted around the circle keeping the candles lit despite the breeze. Adam walked the outer circumference of the circle, whistling to himself. Dog loyally followed up until he spotted a neighbor’s cat, which even grabbed Adam’s attention for a while. She and Aziraphale kept chanting, Newt kept relighting wicks, and Hastur didn’t appear to be doing much, but he made a big show of being there in front of Adam.

Finally, Aziraphale slumped. Without his erect posture, he looked like someone different. Like a human. “It’s not working,” he said. “I just don’t understand it.”

“How come Crowley’s not with his car?” Adam asked. “That’s a cool car. Maybe you should’ve drawn the circle around it.”

Aziraphale blinked a lot, and Anathema had the nagging feeling that he wasn’t doing it quite right. “We might as well try it,” she said gently. “Not redraw the circle, but put the car in our circle.”

“Can I do it?” Adam said excitedly.

“Of course you can,” Hastur said. “It’s a, um, cool car. You should drive it if you like, your majesty.”

Anathema went to stop him, but Newt squeezed her shoulder. “It’s only a few meters. Why not let him?”

She could think of a million reasons why not, but Newt was already going to move the candles out of the way, and Aziraphale was helping with the saddest expression she had ever seen. The angel couldn’t meet her eyes, and she wondered what would happen if this also failed. Could mortals watch an angel cry? Worse, what if he got angry?

Thankfully, Hastur didn’t try to get in the Bentley with Adam. The engine started even though Anathema hadn’t seen any keys change hands. Adam rolled the car forward, Dog barking at him from the depths of canine desperation, and she wasn’t surprised that the car stopped when the driver’s seat was directly in the middle of the circle.

Adam jumped out. “Here, Aziraphale, you should get in the car and open that metal box you left on the front seat.”

Aziraphale straightened up and studied Adam closely. “Should I now?”

Hastur slapped him on the back hard enough to make an audible thud. “Do what our ruler tells you.”

Aziraphale looked like he might respond, but then he just shook his head and got in the car. “Should I go with him?” Anathema asked Adam, since he seemed to be the one in charge now.

He shook his head. “Do you still have any of those snacks you had yesterday?”

She gave up trying to figure out what was happening. “Sure, weird British cheese snacks for everyone.”

The Bentley’s cabin kept out every sound from outside. Aziraphale pulled his lockbox onto his lap. He would’ve sworn that Adam lost his powers when he renounced Satan, but he couldn’t think of any reason to ignore his recommendation. He blinked back tears. It wasn’t as if Crowley didn’t want to return to Earth, right? He was sure that the summoning wasn’t failing because Crowley wanted to stay in Heaven rather than come home. Absolutely positive.

Or maybe Crowley was just sick and tired of dropping everything and jumping whenever Aziraphale felt like he needed him. 

The lockbox required a key, which Aziraphale kept on his key ring. He liked his key ring. It was nifty. It also had keys to his bookshop, which had locks on the front and back doors. None of these were actually needed, but he enjoyed swinging a set of keys. Crowley did the same thing with his car keys. Keys were so ingenious, such a deceptively simple idea, but one an angel and a demon never would’ve thought to invent on their own. The fireproof box was simple, too, meant for surviving another Blitz. Humans built things to withstand wars. They expected to survive them.

If the bookshop hadn’t been restored, if Aziraphale hadn’t figured out how to get back to Earth, what would have survived to mark his existence? Reports to Heaven that had probably never been taken seriously. And the meager contents of this box. Letters from Crowley. The deed to the bookshop. One of the first menus printed in French. One jet black feather. One newspaper clipping from the London Times during the Blitz. One original Shakespeare quarto.

It wasn’t much for a hoarder, but it was enough. In a way, it was everything.

He gave up trying to chant and leaned over, hugging the box in his lap, allowing the tears to finally fall. This was entirely his own fault. If Crowley couldn’t be reached, if Gabriel had done something to him because he had slipped up and trusted Gabriel to keep his word that Crowley wouldn’t be harmed, then he would – he would – he would storm Heaven, that’s what he’d do. He didn’t know what God would do in response. Was She even aware of what was happening to him and Crowley? Did She care? Had She ever cared?

He believed with all of his heart that She cared about people and that She had intended for them to foil to apocalypse (or at least be nearby while foiling occurred). But the inescapable end point of that line of logic was that She had made Crowley Fall as part of that plan. She had made him suffer. And Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could forgive Her for that. He picked up the black feather and turned it slowly. If he didn’t forgive God, didn’t he belong in Hell? And Crowley had endured so much, surely he deserved eternal reward. 

But Aziraphale was selfish. He wanted Crowley here, with him, on Earth. Because that was what Crowley wanted. Wasn’t it?

He tipped his head to stare at the roof of the cabin in an effort to stem the tide of tears. His eyes felt swollen, his nose felt clogged, and his left leg felt like a dry weight was squirming up to his lap—oh! Like a snake!

“Crowley!” He didn’t usually transform into such a small snake. Aziraphale shook his pant leg, and Crowley hissed, but he slithered back down to the floorboards. Aziraphale picked him up and ran his hands over the cool, sleek scales. All of his anxiety about God, Hell, Heaven, the world, it all evaporated in an instant, and he couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Where have you been, you wily serpent? I’ve been calling you every which way.”

Crowley didn’t respond. That was unusual. Instead, he squirmed out of Aziraphale’s hold and began to explore the front seat.

“Crowley?” No answer. “Are you angry at me? Why aren’t you speaking to me?”

The snake flicked his tongue and slipped into the lockbox, where he curled up on top of Aziraphale’s most prized papers. This was definitely Crowley. Aziraphale would recognize the beautiful black and red pattern of his scales anywhere. But he didn’t seem willing – or able – to talk. All of his worry reattached itself in his chest like a burr. 

The snake coiled around the black feather. Was he just a snake now? “Oh, do be careful with that. That’s from India. That feast for the ascension of Chandragupta. Remember? And those coins you’re trying to flick out of the way are from Ireland. When we tried to take on Famine. Remember?”

How could he possibly be crying again? He clenched his eyes shut. “Oh, please tell me you remember.” It was like a prayer.

The air around him changed, warmed and rippled. Aziraphale opened his eyes, and Crowley was sitting behind the steering wheel, right where he belonged. “I remember,” he said, “now.”

After the demon appeared inside the car, he and the angel embraced for what seemed to Anathema like a long time.**

** Any time spent with the Antichrist rolling his eyes while Hastur lurked nearby was bound to seem long.

When they got out of the vehicle, they both exuded so much happiness that it was contagious. Newt pecked her on the cheek – he was such a sweetheart sometimes. Anathema was taken aback when the angel stepped up to her and took her hand between his own.

“Oh, I can’t thank you enough, dear. You’ve been ever so helpful.” He leaned in to speak in a whisper. “And thank you for keeping an eye on young Adam.”

“My pleasure.” She hadn’t enjoyed any of the day’s events, actually, but this ending made it worthwhile.

Meanwhile, the demon Crowley poked the demon Hastur in the chest. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“How was Heaven?” Hastur replied. “Have fun flitting around with the sinless with all the goodness in your heart?”

“Who, me?” Somehow Crowley had gotten a hold of a pair of dark glasses, and somehow Anathema could still tell that his eyes danced playfully. “If you see Beelzebub, tell them I’m in serious violation of my contract.”

“I suppose we’ll have to burn this set, too,” Aziraphale said, “since we don’t intend to fulfill the 72-hours clauses.”

Hastur pointed a crusted hand at Aziraphale. “You’re not going back to Hell?”

“Someone forbid,” Crowley said. “Oh, right, that’s me. I forbid.”

“Wow, I really don’t understand how Hell works at all,” Newt said, voicing Anathema’s own thoughts.

“I thought you and Dagon would be pleased not to see me anymore,” Aziraphale said. “It certainly frees up your time.”

“Yes,” Hastur growled. “Time.”

Adam clapped his hands. “So everything’s fixed then.”

“All tickedy boo,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you for your help, Adam. And you too, Duke Hastur, I suppose.”

“So, like, maybe we’ll see you around,” Crowley told Adam. 

“I’d like that.” Dog barked agreement as Anathema’s heart sank.

She leaned closer to Aziraphale. “What does that mean? Are we on assignment? Should I stay in Tadfield?”

“Would you mind staying for a few more days?” Aziraphale said, “It seems lovely here. And of course Crowley and I would be very pleased if we could see you more often.” He cleared his throat. “As long as you won’t be burning books.”

“I swore that was a one-time thing,” Newt said.**

** There was something about even the slightest criticism from the angel that made Newt break out in a sweat. That something may have been Crowley’s hypnotic and menacing glare.

Anathema’s head swirled. “What if Heaven and Hell come looking for you?” She was afraid to say what she really thought – they’d be looking for Adam. “I don’t know what to do next. I don’t remember any prophecies about this.”

“We can be here from the city right away,” Crowley said. He snapped his fingers, and Anathema’s phone beeped. She suspected Crowley had just been added to her contacts.

Aziraphale beamed. “What you should do,” he said, “is let us know immediately if anyone, uh, angelic or demonic shows up in Tadfield. And sleep well tonight and dream of something you’d like to do.”

“We’ll check in with you in the morning,” Crowley said.

She dreamed that night of climbing a giant apple tree, its old and knobby branches overhead shielding her like a canopy.

The next day, Adam and the rest of the Them showed her and Newt where the best apples grew. They even climbed a short tree. She and Newt had both been raised as city dwellers, and they fell more than once, tumbling down to the soft grass and scraping their palms. But that was part of the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! This was the hardest chapter to write. The chapter title is from the song Rain in Soho by the Mountain Goats.


	13. Whatever This World Can Give to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although the invitations were nice, neither Heaven nor Hell had the slightest clue when it came to party planning. If you’re going to make your guests attend at dinner time, feed them dinner. Not that Crowley would eat anything on offer, but that wasn’t the point, was it?

Crowley was summoned from Heaven on a Tuesday. He and Aziraphale spent the week texting and calling Anathema to make sure Gabriel and Beelzebub were leaving Adam alone. As far as they could tell, Adam had lost his occult powers and was just a very eerie boy. In any case, nobody else showed up in Tadfield, and the biggest excitement of Adam’s week was when he and Pepper were disciplined for jumping out a classroom window during a lecture on reporting other students’ bad behavior.**

** Crowley thoroughly approved. He also took personal responsibility for coining the phrase “Snitches get stiches.”

Strangely, he never heard from Gabriel about breaking his contract. Both Gabriel and Beelzebub were completely MIA, and they didn’t hear a peep from their old bosses. He and Aziraphale didn’t have any trustworthy contacts in Heaven, and obviously not in Hell, so they didn’t know what was occurring Above or Below. He assumed Hastur had gone back to Hell with tales of making friends with the Antichrist, but whether that would encourage or discourage Beezlebub, he didn’t know. Aziraphale thought Hastur and Dagon were plotting against whatever idea Beelzebub had to restart the apocalypse. Crowley didn’t think Hastur could plot his way off a dead end street. Dagon had never turned against Beelzebub in the past, but as Crowley knew well, anything could change.

All that really mattered was that Aziraphale was no longer in Hell. Hopefully his angel had finally realized the best way to make Crowley happy was to stay right where he could see him.

By Sunday, Crowley was beginning to relax. He lounged in the back of the bookshop, legs hooked over the arm of the couch, scrolling through Instagram looking at the work of independent artists and leaving supporting comments on posts that struck him as especially atmospheric. Every time he clicked a heart, it felt like he was kicking out of the box his old job had used to confine him. Aziraphale sipped on hot cocoa and did the _Times’_ crossword. The fact that he didn’t trust himself to do in ink and used a pencil was absolutely freaking adorable. The shop was obviously closed, and Crowley and Aziraphale engaged in an unspoken contest of wills turning the volume up and down on the soundtrack to _The Book of Mormon_. If such a lazy Sunday could take corporeal form, it would be a warm blanket.

At least, it felt that way until the doorbell rang. Aziraphale yelled out his customary greeting. “We’re closed!”

Crowley pulled his torso off the couch. “Nobody’s there, angel. Someone must’ve dropped off a package.”

“I’m not expecting anything.” Aziraphale returned his attention to the newspaper. Although he had more curiosity than other angels, it still wasn’t much. Crowley sighed and rolled to his feet, pretending not to notice Aziraphale’s smug expression.

“Huh, someone put an envelope in the mail slot. It’s addressed to both of us.” Its shape hinted at an invitation, but he caught a whiff of brimstone. “I think it’s from Hell.”

Aziraphale finally put down his pencil. “Did they address us as emissaries? Which titles did they use?”

The envelope simply read “Crowley” and “Aziraphale.” Crowley opened it and, sure enough, it contained an invitation. It was quite a fancy one, engraved in gold ink on cream-colored card stock. Across the top was scribbled in sloppy handwriting, “Hey Losers.”

“Eh, they must’ve forgot the titles,” Crowley said. 

He scanned the invitation. Whatever showed on his face brought Aziraphale to his feet. “What, what?”

Crowley read out loud. “You are invited to witness the trial and execution of the traitors Archangel Gabriel and Prince Beelzebub – huh, I wonder how Gabe got top billing – to take place on neutral ground. The charges will be read after hors d’oeuvres at 4. Executions will take place promptly at 7.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Hors d’oeuvres at 4? How gauche.” He sat down and studied the crossword.

Crowley threw himself back on the couch. “That’s it? They’re serving appetizers too early for your liking?”

“Well, it makes it impossible to know how to dress. I hope they’re not expecting an RSVP.”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t feel obligated to respond.”

He waited. Aziraphale chewed on the eraser of his pencil. 

“Still,” Crowley finally said, “execution already scheduled right after the trial. It doesn’t look too good for them.”

“No less than they deserve,” Aziraphale said.

He expected more from the angel, who could be forgiving at the most inconvenient moments. But if Aziraphale was going to be easy about it, who was he to complain? There should be satisfaction in knowing Gabriel was going to be punished for trying to destroy Aziraphale. The wanker should consider himself lucky he was getting a trial, even if it didn’t sound like much of one. Crowley might even show up to watch Gabriel eye the hellfire, although he wouldn’t stick around for the actual destruction. 

“If we go, I’m not wearing black tie,” he said.

“Goodness, not at 4.”

Crowley turned the invitation over, looking for some hint of what the trial would be about, but the other side was blank. “It’s taking place next week in London. The lobby of the building where we went to report.”

“That’s convenient. Although I’m still not sure I want to go.”

“Not even as diplomats from Earth?” There was only a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Oh, dear, I wish you hadn’t said that,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose we’ll have to attend.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. I can’t wait to see Sandalphon and the rest of those hypocritical ingrates try to pin all their crimes on Gabe.”

“So you really didn’t like anything about Heaven?” 

“Nah. Too bright. Hurt my eyes. No way to call you. Everyone kept trying to smite me.” Crowley considered. “Uriel had some good ideas about asshats who use their phones during concerts.” **

** This, of course, did not include Crowley, who considered himself exempt. Obviously when he was using the phone, it was because it was important.

“I always found her rather strict.”

“”S not always a bad thing. What about you? Nothing in Hell warmed your bastard heart?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, Dagon had some good ideas about the punishment for stealing books. I should put up similar signs here.” **

**The most prominent sign was “Book Thieves Will Be Subject to Remoras Inserted in Random Orifices.” Crowley had once tried to steal a new Oscar Wilde for Aziraphale, and he was positive the sign was wrong. There was nothing random about the chosen orifices at all.

“At least they didn’t torture you.” Crowley had triple-checked that in Beelzebub’s contract.

Aziraphale pouted. “They kept me in a library and wouldn’t let me read any of the books.”

Crowley gasped. “Those monsters!”

“You know, I’ll bet Dagon is behind this trial and execution.”

Crowley nodded agreement. “And Michael. I’m not sure I’m crazy about the idea of her running the Heavenly agenda. At least with Gabe, we knew what to expect.”

“Well, a change is as good as a rest, I suppose.” But he looked around his shop uncertainly. He didn’t like change for the sake of change, and even though Gabriel was a prick, there was something predictable about his prickness. He’d never try to recruit Aziraphale back to the old firm, and there was a lot to say for that.

“Dagon seems to go by the written policies, though,” Aziraphale said hopefully.

“Ugh, I know, it’s the worst,” Crowley said. “She’ll probably sic Hell’s lawyers on me. I’ll end up in court for breaking my employment contract.”

“Won’t she be afraid of you and your holy water pistols?”

“Hell has plenty of lawyers. She’ll be able to send them in platoons.” He sighed. “Beelzebub was simple. Grovel in fear. I could do it in my sleep. Dagon will want things notarized.” **

**Aziraphale almost asked if Hell had a public notary but decided to let it wait until cocktail hour.

“We don’t work for them anymore,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It doesn’t matter to us who’s in charge.”

“Too right,” Crowley agreed. “Although …”

“What?”

“I think I prefer the incompetence we know. It’s kind of the only reason we’re still here, that familiar incompetence.”

Aziraphale was quiet, and he tapped his fingers on his desk. Crowley checked Instagram, but it no longer held his interest. 

“There’s nothing we can do for them anyway,” Aziraphale said. “We don’t even know what they’re being charged with.”

Crowley hoped they were being punished for trying to kill him and Aziraphale, but you never could tell what Michael and Dagon were planning. That was the problem. “We know how they’ll be executed.”

“No, Crowley. Absolutely not.” Aziraphale’s cheeks grew pink. “If they figure out what we did, they’ll know we’re not immune to hellfire and holy water. We won’t be safe anymore.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Crowley pushed his hand through his hair. “Just think of what a huge favor they’ll owe us, though. They’ll be indebted to us forever.”

“We can’t very well march into a celestial trial and tell everyone how we survived. You might as well paint a target on your back. I don’t want to see them executed but—”

“I’d love to see them squirm in fear,” Crowley said. “I want to watch Gabe as the hot wind blows across his face. I want to hear Beelzebub scream when the water splashes.” But. He wasn’t sure he wanted to watch it go further than that. He leaned forward and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Most of all, I want them to owe us so much that they’ll never bother you again.”

Aziraphale entwined their fingers with a sweet smile that made Crowley want to jump into his lap. “London is getting too crowded, isn’t it? I feel jumpy every time I see someone in a light-colored suit.”

“I almost attacked a woman in a long coat yesterday for walking a cat on a leash,” Crowley admitted. “Honestly, though, who does that? These sidewalks are filthy.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about Gabriel and Beelzebub. We don’t interfere with Heaven and Hell, and maybe they won’t interfere with us.”

“Maybe,” Crowley said doubtfully.

“I’m not risking you again,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s heart melted as if it wasn’t quite the blackened shell he’d always suspected it was. Then Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek, and it was almost too much. He jumped up to make Aziraphale a fresh cup of cocoa.

When he returned from the kitchen, Aziraphale was scowling and tapping his foot.

“Someone try to come in and make a purchase?” Crowley asked.

“Worse. I figured out how to save them without revealing our secret.”

“I knew you would.” He put the mug with the angel wings on the coaster and decided to sit in Aziraphale’s lap after all. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arm around Crowley’s waist and pulled him closer. “I don’t know that I want to save them. That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“You’re asking me?” 

That drew a grin out of Aziraphale. “Yes, I’m asking you. I wouldn’t trust anyone’s opinion more.”

He curled up so he could bury his head in Aziraphale’s neck and soak up his warmth. Crowley didn’t know that he wanted to save them either. But it had been wrong of Heaven to try to kill Aziraphale with hellfire, and it was wrong to put the blame entirely on Gabriel and snuff him out the same way.

“They’ll be so beholden to us, won’t they?” he said. “And we can let them suffer a little bit.”

“Well, only to teach them a valuable lesson.”

“Oh, sure, it will be good for them.” Crowley laughed. “Maybe I can get Beelzebub to thank us.”

“True suffering indeed.” Aziraphale hugged his waist. “Maybe Beelzebub and Gabriel won’t be the only ones to learn a lesson. Dagon and Michael aren’t as guiltless as they’re pretending.”

“I learned a lesson today.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Sundays aren’t all that bad.” He whispered in Aziraphale’s ear. “Just think, angel, if we do this right, every day could be like this.”

Demons weren’t supposed to have hope. There were a lot of things demons weren’t supposed to have, like the devotion of an angel, and Crowley planned to possess every single one of them. Having the moral high ground over both Gabriel and Beelzebub would be one of his favorite new possessions. 

“Fine, you win again, fiend,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll save their ungrateful skins. But this is the last time I’m speaking to them.”

“That’s the best part. No more reports.” Crowley experimented with flicking his tongue over Aziraphale’s earlobe. Aziraphale sucked in his breath. “No more being monitored. Privacy.”

He had faith in whatever plan Aziraphale came up with, although sometimes the angel could be oblivious to danger. Crowley had decided hundreds of years ago that any risk was worth being in Aziraphale’s orbit, the sole object of Aziraphale’s adoring looks and sappy compliments. 

“So where do our souls go when the world destroys itself?” he drawled in Aziraphale’s ear, drawing circles on the back of his neck.

“Where – do – Crowley, I can’t think straight when you do that.” He refused to bite back a grin. Driving Aziraphale out of his thoughts was too powerfully fun. “What did you say?”

“Oh, distracted, are we?” 

He blew into Aziraphale’s ear. The look he received in response was so possessive and wanting that Crowley completely forgot what he’d asked in the first place.


	14. Good Morning, Worm Your Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The crown will plainly show the prisoner who now stands before you was caught red-handed showing feelings, showing feelings of an almost human nature; this will not do.”

The holding cell in Hell was constructed of transparent plexiglass so that everyone could jeer at Beelzebub, formerly Prince of Hell, formerly Lord of the Flies, as they shuffled by the cage.**

** It was in fact reminiscent of the glass-walled conference room where Gabriel met with Metatron, another echo of Heaven distorted by anger and bad taste in building materials.

Dagon had apprehended them as soon as they’d returned from the Underworld and stuffed them in here. Now they were having a hard time keeping up the appearance of boredom as lesser demons made obscene gestures at them while they waited for their sham trial. It was a shame. There was nothing they used to enjoy more than a kangaroo court – when they were the judge. Although, come to think of it, the trial to kill Crowley had soured them on the concept. And the trial that would culminate in their own assassination would put an end to their enjoyment of everything else.**

** Beelzebub naturally thought of Crowley’s death sentence as killing and their own death sentence as assassination. This had nothing to do with rank – it’s just how demons think.

What Dagon would call failure analysis kept trickling through their brain. Where had they gone wrong? Even from this cage, they’d heard about Hastur coming back from Earth bragging about helping the Antichrist, but it seemed clear that Aziraphale had told the truth and the Antichrist was now a fully human boy. Failure of reconnaissance number one. And the witch who summoned Crowley, letting Aziraphale restore his memory! Failure of reconnaissance number two. They definitely should’ve foreseen that Aziraphale and Crowley would enlist the help of humans. The names Anathema Device and Newton Pulsiver weren’t on Hell’s rolls yet, but Beelzebub planned to devote real effort to changing that as soon as—

Oh, right. They had reached the end of planning.

And then there was the Archangel Gabriel. All of this could’ve been avoided if they hadn’t been foolish enough to go after Gabriel in the Underworld. Dagon’s betrayal should’ve been easy to spot. She’d been shockingly honest about wanting to betray them.**

** A demon might even consider her warnings before the fact a sign of friendship, if that particular demon wasn’t currently chained to the floor awaiting execution at her hand.

Now she was using their presence in the Underworld with Gabriel as proof against them. What had possessed them to take the bait?

That was where the failure analysis broke down. If they hadn’t tried to warn Gabriel about the opposition to the apocalypse, they could’ve walked away blaming Gabriel for the entire plot. After all, nobody would dare punish them for tempting Aziraphale to come down to Hell. That was practically in their job description.**

** Actually, the job description they were thinking of was Crowley’s, as was the justification. But, they had to admit, as far as justifications went, it had always worked for Crowley.

Nobody would’ve known the plan for the apocalypse was theirs. They could’ve acted as if the Lethe River water was all Gabriel’s idea, pretended they knew nothing about it. It totally would’ve worked. They might’ve been invited to attend Gabriel’s trial and execution with a place of privilege, like a box seat with a throne. Although thinking of Gabriel walking into hellfire made them realize these trials had completely lost their purpose. Somewhere, somehow, everything had gone astray. The end of the age of the Great Plan. The dawn of the age of the Ineffable Plan.

Their flies buzzed in frustration. The incredibly irritating thing about the Ineffable Plan was that everyone was making it up as they went along _without consulting them_.

There was no point in rehashing their failures. They needed to prepare their defense. In their experience, it wouldn’t work to go in unprepared. In their experience, questions would be asked and they couldn’t afford to be blindsided by them. In their experience—

Wait, when had they ever been on trial before? When had they, the Prince of Hell, ever, ever been blindsided? Excepting now, of course.

The true memory slammed into them like being hit in the face with a neon tube, obliterating their vision. The always present buzzing in their ears crescendoed to a shrill emergency alarm. They curled into a ball and buried their head in their arms, using every last atom of their fortitude not to whimper out loud. Then the sound cut off, and they experienced total silence for the first time since their Fall. Total silence, total darkness, and electric pain shooting through their corporation’s every nerve ending.

There was a tiny spark of light, flitting around like a moth. It grew larger and brighter. 

“You can’t lie to the Metatron,” someone said. 

Beelzebub blinked, and suddenly, they’d been catapulted back in time. They were back in Heaven, staring at Michael and Sandalphon towering above them. The Metatron hovered over their shoulder in front of the white expanse of pristine, unlicked walls.

“I have nothing to lie about.” It was their voice, sort of. Had they sounded that different before the Lake of Fire? That … pretty? They were looking out the eyes of their former, angelic corporation, but they didn’t control it and couldn’t stop it from talking. The past could not be changed.

“So who created the butterflies?” Sandalphon asked.

“I don’t see why it matters.” Ha, that did sound like them. “The butterflies were beautiful. Why do you object to them?”

“They’re creatures of Earth,” Michael said. “They don’t belong here.”

“So we’re not allowed to have beautiful things in Heaven?”

Beelzebub’s heart swelled with pride. If this was how they’d been tossed out of Heaven, they’d wear it as a badge of honor.

“Order is beautiful,” Michael said confidently. “Chaos is not. And a random chaos of even beautiful things is less than the sum of its parts.”

“Sophistry.” The former angel sniffed.

“Her laws are never sophistry,” Metatron boomed. That voice shook them down to the level of their bones, or where their bones would’ve been if they’d had any.

Sandalphon tilted his head to one side. “Some cherubs are saying that Gabriel created the butterflies.”

The angel that Beelzebub had once been froze. Walk away, Beelzebub thought at their past self. Quit trying to talk your way out of it. Rude gestures could come into it, that was acceptable, but no matter what, get out. 

“Gabriel didn’t create them,” the nameless angel said, unable to hear present-day Beelzebub’s thoughts.

“He was there,” Sandalphon said. “He didn’t do anything to stop it. You can’t deny that.”

Michael tapped a gold-tinted lip. “I’m not sure that qualifies Gabriel as a co-conspirator.”

Don’t fall for something that obvious! Beelzebub’s internal monologue screamed, as if they could have any influence on what had already transpired.

Their past self wasn’t as canny as their present self. “I did it. Alone. Gabriel couldn’t be a co-conspirator. You know he always follows the rules.”

“You were trying to impress him,” Metatron intoned. “He liked them.” Because these questions weren’t meant to find out the truth. Metatron had known the truth already.

“Gabriel isn’t smart enough to appreciate something new and different,” the angel who had once been said, and Michael gasped at the insult. The lie. “I did it to prove I could.”

“You have a lot of influence over him,” Michael said. “He respects you.”

“That’s his problem. It doesn’t affect my actions.”

Just walk away! Just stop talking! But the scene shrank in front of his eyes, letterboxed, Michael and Sandalphon growing smaller and smaller, the sound of the nonexistent angel’s lies to Metatron seeming to come from far away. And then it blanked out completely.

Beelzebub was in a dank cell in the pits of Hell, chained down by the ankles and wrists, entirely alone. The ugly metallic tang of divine revelation stung their tongue. They spit out blood, like a sick human. Exhaustion settled over them like a dead weight, despair following in its wake.

They stared past the leaky ceiling and addressed a cruel and indifferent God. “Thiz iz why nobody likez you.”

Beelzebub could tell when the appointed day of the trial came because the demons began to preen, grooming black feathers, sharpening claws and fangs, and smearing each other with fresh slime. This was going to be the biggest social event of eternity, and what seemed to be causing the most excitement was the venue on neutral ground with all the angels in attendance. Dagon and Michael didn’t want a repeat of Crowley and Aziraphale’s botched executions, they assumed, and thought the neutral setting would guarantee a different outcome. Beelzebub themselves was practically forgotten in the buildup. But then, they didn’t have an active role to play. The charges would be read, the tub of holy water tested, and they’d be thrown in. A bad-tempered rat could replace them.**

** Unfortunately, none of the rats who gnawed their way into Beelzebub’s cell was willing to prove it.

They should be preparing their defense, but there wasn’t one. They had believed in the Great Plan. They had sacrificed for it. And now the ultimate sacrifice was being demanded. Aziraphale and Crowley had started the dice rolling (probably accidentally, those idiots) with the Ineffable Plan, and for Beelzebub, the dice came up snake eyes. Appropriate, perhaps. 

There was no point, either, in continually replaying their existence to determine their regrets. They wanted to say they had no regrets, but it came as a shock to them that, in fact, they had many regrets. They’d never been to an Ozzy Osborne concert, and now they’d never live to see Hell complete the new, state-of-the-art Black Sabbath Memorial Coliseum. Linear time was truly a bitch. They’d worked too hard for too long for a Great Plan that ended up not mattering. They should’ve spent more time on Earth doing stupid things for fun. Throwing macarons at Gabriel in Aziraphale’s bookshop had been the most fun they’d had in hundreds of years.

They supposed they should feel honored that a Duke of Hell came to drag them from their cell. The dragging wasn’t strictly necessary, but Hastur remained a traditionalist, and Beelzebub didn’t have the heart to deny him this, here at the end. Hastur cuffed their hands behind their back and pushed them onto the rising escalator. As they reached the ground floor, the roar of the crowd of angels and demons crested and broke over them, causing their flies to flee in panic. Now they were truly alone.

They couldn’t stop themselves from looking at the other escalator, where Gabriel was descending, flanked by the other Archangels, his hands tied in front of him with binding ropes. He looked perfect, of course, his suit spotless and his hair exactly in place. And he was smiling at everyone. That was the detail that kicked them in the stomach. Well, if Gabriel could smile, so could they. It made them feel a little bit braver, and a lot more defiant. Screw you, Ineffable Plan, they thought, I’ll stop smiling when you make me and not a moment before.

Tiers and tiers of bleachers ringed the floor, talkative angels on one side, howling demons on the other. In the middle of the floor, Dagon guarded a bathtub. And one Archangel wasn’t guiding Gabriel to the ground. Michael stood center stage, conferring with a disposable demon – that would be the lucky deliverer of the hellfire. He’d probably be promoted to semi-disposable for this.**

** There were no promotions after semi-disposable. That was as high as it went. Anyone who doubted that could go look in the bathtub.

Hastur planted a hand between their shoulder blades. “I just want to say, it was a dishonor to work for you, my Lord.”

“The feeling iz mutual,” they managed to say as Hastur shoved them forward to the edge of the tub.

Gabriel bowed to Michael, and she rose her eyebrows in surprise. A murmur spread through the assembled angels. The bastard was going out with class, they had to give him that. 

“Silence!” Hastur screamed, a very practiced scream that rattled in their skull and left echoes. The crowd noise settled, all eyes up front, ready for the show.

“Welcome to the first meeting of the Divine and Occult Combined Governing Board,” Michael intoned in the reverberating voice angels usually reserved for proclaiming to humans. Beelzebub heard the capital letters in her pronunciation. Combined Governing Board! The bureaucracy had gone rabid. They looked over at Gabriel, who rolled his eyes as if he could hear and agree with Beelzebub’s thoughts. 

“We start our official business with a trial,” Michael said.

The crowd cheered, but one voice called out above the din. One fussy, British voice. “Point of order! Point of order!”

Beelzebub thought everything had been taken from them, but they were wrong. Their death could’ve had some gravitas. Now even that had been snatched away. Aziraphale and Crowley walked in from the direction of the doors to Earth, Crowley with his usual swagger and shit-eating grin and Aziraphale waving a finger in the air for attention. He was dressed in his ridiculous charcoal grey suit, and Crowley wore a Grecian gown, because why the hell not, what was the point of a dignified end? Gabriel closed his eyes briefly, his smile noticeably dimmer, or at least noticeably to Beelzebub. Dagon’s scowl was noticeable from outer space.

Michael sighed. “What do you want?”

Aziraphale stepped in front of the bleachers. “We’d like to know who is presenting Lord Beelzebub and Archangel Gabriel’s defense.”

Dagon slapped Beelzebub on the back of the head. It was wet and cold. “Do you have a defense?”

“No,” they admitted.

“I don’t need a defense,” Gabriel said loudly. “God knows what’s in my heart.”

The angels stood and clapped, giving him a standing ovation. His words had sounded meaningful and inspiring, and yet they were absolutely no help whatsoever. It was classic Gabriel. Bless it, this was the worst time to realize they were going to miss him.

When the hubbub died down, Aziraphale made another attempt. “Your Honor and your Dishonor, we’d like to act as their defense.”

“On what grounds?” Dagon said.

“You need a defense,” Crowley said, “if you want to do this by the book.”

“As emissaries of Earth, we’re neutral parties to any disputes between or among Heaven and Hell, and therefore uniquely qualified to act as representatives for the accused,” Aziraphale said.

Michael’s eyebrows rose. “What did you say you were?”

The renegade angel drew himself up straight, shoulders back. “The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Emissary of Earth and Protector of the Humans.”

“Oh, he’s just making up titles now,” Gabriel said out of the corner of his mouth.

“It waz almost a dignified death,” Beezlebub said in response.

“But,” Crowley said loudly, “if you don’t want to do this by the book, if you want a trial without a defense that everyone will question until the end of time?” He gave Michael finger guns. “You go ahead and do you.”

Goddammit, the serpent still had his skills. “The traitor angel Aziraphale and the traitor demon Crowley will conduct the defense,” Michael said. 

Both angels and demons cheered. This was much more entertainment than they’d expected. Or deserved.

“Well?” Dagon said. “Present their defense.”

“Oh, but you haven’t read the charges yet,” Aziraphale said.

Beelzebub resisted the impulse to curse everyone in sight. Dagon smiled, fangs dripping ichor, and oozed in front of them, blocking their view of the bleachers. She’d evidently been waiting for her big moment in the spotlight. She cleared her throat with a sound like a toad caught in a weed whacker.

“Here are the charges against the collective accused, the Archangel Gabriel and the Prince of Hell, Lord Beelzebub. Count number one. Conspiring to restart the apocalypse without approval from God or Satan.”

It was of no comfort to know that the trumped-up charges they expected to die for were accurate and not trumped up at all.

“Count number two. Lying to their staff.”

“That’z just a charge for the Archangel,” they pointed out. “I should get bonuz pointz for that.”

“What are bonus points?” Aziraphale asked. “Do they, for example, lower the level of holy water in the bathtub?”

Beelzebub locked their jaw in place, no longer getting any satisfaction from smiling. “Thank you so much for your legal representation.”

Naturally, the angel was impervious to sarcasm. “Why, you’re welcome, Lord.”

“Count number three,” Dagon said in a voice that brooked no interruptions. “Fraternizing with the enemy without permission or disclosure.”

“It’s not fair that Aziraphale’s the only one who gets to fraternize,” Gabriel said. A collective murmur susurrated through the bleachers, and Beelzebub’s eyes got unexpectedly itchy. Crowley, though, gave Gabriel an obnoxious grin and wave. 

“Count number four. Sneaking the traitor angel and the traitor demon around Hell and Heaven for their own purposes.”

“I also want that charge stricken from the record,” they said, accepting that it was hard baked into their being to keep arguing despite knowing it was futile. “Tempting angelz to Hell is hardly an offense.”

Dagon loomed over them. “You let him touch my books. There should be another trial about that alone.”

“Hear, hear,” Aziraphale called out. Had they thought their end would be undignified? Apparently, it was worse than that. It was becoming a running joke.

“I had high hopes when Crowley turned up in Heaven,” Michael said, “but Gabriel’s motivation for bringing him there and then confining him was selfish. Still, if you can think of any way in which forcing us to spend time with Crowley or Aziraphale was of any benefit to Heaven or Hell, we’d be happy to drop that charge.”

Crowley lounged on a riser, kicking his long legs in front of him. “Nah, we got nothing.” Beelzebub fumed – that arrogant snake used that “tempting an angel” excuse to them every other decade – but they couldn’t think of anything either. 

“Count number five,” Dagon proclaimed. “Maintaining a friendship with their counterpart while enforcing rules forbidding angel and demon friendships.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded. Beelzebub considered protesting the color commentary, but Dagon was returning to the bathtub. The reading of the charges was over.

Crowley sprung to his feet. “You .. But ... That’s it? That’s all? Where’s the charge for trying to execute Aziraphale? Gabriel forced him into a tower of hellfire for trying to save humanity! You’re not even charging him with that?”

“And for forcing Crowley to take a holy water bath,” Aziraphale said. “We insist that you add another charge.”

“I suppose we could allow that,” Michael said.

Dagon rushed forward. “Count number six. Attempting to execute the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley.”

The angels clapped, and the demons hooted and hollered. Gabriel raised his hands to the ceiling dramatically. “Thank you, God, for this capable legal representation,” he cried.

“Stay cool,” they said. “It’z almost over.” They didn’t like to think of Gabriel losing his temper and cursing God with his last words. It wasn’t what Gabriel would have chosen an hour ago. And neither of them had very many choices left.

“Would the defense like to bring any mitigating factors into the record?” Michael asked.

“Your Honor, we need to confer with our clients in private,” Aziraphale said.

“Right, because they need to gloat,” Gabriel said.

“I can gloat right here, Gabe,” Crowley said. “I might even conjure up a pillow, make myself at home.”

“Just a quick, private conference, your Honor, your Dishonor,” Aziraphale said. “There’s an adjoining conference room behind the escalators we can use to clarify a point of law.”

Michael glanced at Uriel and Sandalphon, who were sitting in the front row, but they didn’t raise any objections. “Well, we do want this trial to be done by the book,” she said slowly.

“It’s fine with me,” Dagon said. “The water isn’t getting any less holy.”

No, Beelzebub supposed it wasn’t. He let the traitors lead them to the conference room. But if the last thing they ever heard was Crowley’s laugh, they swore they’d come back as a ghost and haunt the shit out him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely my favorite chapter to write! After all, where else could this fic end up?
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos. They mean a lot to me!


	15. Stoke the Fires of Paradise (with Coals from Hell to Start)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub's To Do list: 1. Avoid being dissolved into an ooze. If this is unavoidable, make sure the ooze is the most toxic, stickiest, rankest, foul ooze that ever existed. 2. Look on the bright side of being dissolved into gunk - no further need to listen to Crowley and Aziraphale!

In the small, well-lit conference room, Beelzebub was able to get a good look at Gabriel. There were dark half-moons under his eyes and new wrinkles around his mouth. They never imagined the day they’d see the Archangel Gabriel let his corporation show a flaw. Gabriel paced in a short oval, back and forth, back and forth, before turning on Aziraphale.

“How are you going to get us out of these charges?” he demanded.

“I don’t think I could,” Aziraphale said calmly, and he sat in a conference chair. “The charges seem airtight.”

“Yup.” Crowley popped the p. “They got you both dead to rights.” He picked out a rotating chair with wheels and spun around. 

Veins stood out on Gabriel’s neck. “Then why are you here?” 

A tiny spark of hope lit in Beelzebub’s soul. It was small, and they mentally blew on it to make it catch fire. “You’re going to make uz immune to hellfire and holy water.”

“We’re going to show you how to survive your punishments,” Aziraphale said carefully.

“But there’s a condition,” Crowley said. “And you have to agree to it before we help you. And the condition is you leave us alone forever.”

“Sounds great to me,” Gabriel said.

Crowley jumped up and threw his dark glasses to the carpet, turning the full weight of his gaze on Gabriel. “This isn’t a joke. No more assignments, no more contracts, no more trying to order us around.”

“We don’t want you visiting us,” Aziraphale said. “We don’t want you interrupting our television programs. We don’t want you sending representatives. If we’re discorporated, you issue us new bodies immediately and without question. When we say leave us alone, we mean you agree that Heaven and Hell have no hold or claim over us whatsoever.”

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” Crowley said.

“On Earth, that means we’ll never call you.” Aziraphale picked up the glasses and handed them to Crowley, who gave him an adoring smile in return that made Beelzebub feel a little more nauseated than they already did from contemplating the holy water. 

“Humans take orders from Heaven,” Gabriel began. 

Beelzebub interrupted as quickly as they could. “We agree to your termz.”

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale said. “Do you also agree?”

Gabriel waved an arm. “Yes, yes, of course. What choice do I have?”

“You could die honorably, not owing us a thing,” Crowley said. 

Gabriel met Beelzebub’s eyes, and they decided to sit down after all. “I couldn’t make that decision for someone else,” he said.

“Just tell uz how to go native,” they said, trying to feel nothing but impatience. “Do we have to sign a contract with humanz?”

A blush spread across Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he fiddled with his hands over his belly. 

“We came all this way to tell them,” Crowley said. It wasn’t a tempting voice, it was a gentle voice, and Aziraphale nodded and interlaced his fingers to still his fidgeting. They could see that this was going to be worse than a mere contract with humans.

Of course, the angel couldn’t just spit it out. “Do you remember,” he said to Gabriel, “the blessing you asked me to give to Handel when he was composing the _Messiah_?”

Gabriel threw his hands up. “Do you want praise for that? Great job.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said. “I think it turned out rather well in the end. The repetition of the Hallelujah chorus has been annoying the crap out of the English-speaking world for generations.”

“It wasn’t annoying for at least a century,” Aziraphale said. “I think it turned out lovely.”

“Eh.” Crowley made a face. “Not my worst blessing.”

The full import of the exchange seeped into Beelzebub’s consciousness. They knew that Crowley hadn’t been much of a demon, but this was beyond subordination. This was a crime against Satan, a crime against nature. They growled. “You blessed someone. You blessed someone for an angel! Why?”

Crowley stuck out his lower lip. “I lost the coin toss.”

They were struck dumb, too stunned to speak, a problem the traitor angel would never have. “Crowley slept for 60 years once. I had to file all of his reports so Beelzebub and Dagon wouldn’t suspect.”

“And complete his assignments?” Gabriel gasped. “You tempted people to sin?”

“Well, I had to, didn’t I?” Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, seemed a little embarrassed. “Hell’s extremely keen on punishments, you know that.”

Crowley beamed with pride. “He’s very good at tempting. How do you think he got back up to Earth from Hell?”

“Yes, well, I learned from the master.”

“Agghh,” Beelzebub screamed, resisting the urge to claw and scratch. “Just stop! Let’z just get thiz done. Do I have to blesszzs someone?”

“What would you do that for?” Crowley asked.

They shouldn’t strike out at the only beings who could save their lives, but talk about tempting. Gabriel was emanating offended righteousness, and they put a hand on his arm to prevent any smiting. Then they counted to three and said, “What did you do to become immune to holy water?”

“Who, me?” Crowley was spinning around in his chair again. “I’m not immune to holy water.”

The spark of hope in their chest extinguished itself.

“You’ll need to keep that quiet,” Aziraphale said, “just like we’ll keep mum about the both of you overlooking me doing the tempting and Crowley doing the blessing for a couple of millennia.”

“Millennia?” Gabriel squeaked.

“I saw Crowley in the bathtub,” they said. “He splashed holy water at me. I watched him do it.”

“Weeell,” Crowley said, “that was a trick.”

“I saw Aziraphale walk into the hellfire,” Gabriel said. “You’re going to tell me that was a trick, too?”

Crowley wheeled his chair in front of Gabriel. “Did you see him spit hellfire in your smug little face after you told him to die already?”

With that eyewitness account, the trick clicked into place, and it had been so simple, so obvious in retrospect, that they laughed out loud. “Don’t you get it, Gabriel? It’s the same trick they alwayz pulled on uz, over and over. They cared about each other, so they protected each other.”

“It’s a very odd blind spot Heaven and Hell share,” Aziraphale said. “I wonder why?”

There was nothing funny about the rhetorical question, but they couldn’t stop laughing. It was bordering on manic hysteria, and their stomach hurt as they gasped for breath. 

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Crowley said.

“Right.” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “Now you’ll have to do the same thing. Care about each other. Protect each other.”

“I don’t understand,” Gabriel said.

They wiped at their eyes and forced themselves to stop laughing. “They switched corporationz,” they explained. “I tried to execute Aziraphale in holy water. And you tried to execute Crowley.”

Realization blew Gabriel’s eyes and mouth wide open. “They – they – how is that even possible?”

“Oh, it was simple, really,” Aziraphale said. “We held hands and just shifted over. It’s like claiming a replacement body, only more …”

He trailed off with a sappy look on his face, and Crowley finished the sentence. “Only more.” He stood. “Welp, good luck. Looking forward to not seeing you again.”

“Are you serious?” Gabriel said. “I could go out there right now and tell everyone you two aren’t immune. You think that crowd wouldn’t forget about us and turn on you?”

“We’re nowhere near as important as you are,” Aziraphale said. “They won’t forget the Archangel Gabriel and the Lord of the Flies. And once you tell the audience how the trick is done, the magic disappears. Whatever you decide, though, enjoy the rest of eternity.”

“Or don’t,” Crowley added. 

They left, and with an exhale of relief, Beelzebub realized they’d likely never see the traitors again. One way or the other. 

They scooted their chair up to Gabriel, who was still standing shell-shocked, gaping at the conference room door. “If we’re going to do thiz, we have to do it now.”

He turned to face them. “Is eternal life in Hell worth so much to you? I always thought it would be kind of a bummer. You know, the hailing Satan and the torture and all that.”

“I think …” Their recently recovered memory still caused twinges of pain. “I think Heaven never suited me. I think my Fall waz destined and isn't something for you to feel guilty about.”

Gabriel jumped, startled. “Guilty? I don’t feel guilty.”

“Good.” Gabriel looked as innocent as the “totally innocent” souls in Hell, but there was no time to pursue that line of thought now. If they didn’t act fast, there wouldn’t be time later, either.

“But destined?” Gabriel rose an eyebrow. “That makes it sound like it followed a Plan.”

Beelzebub stood. “We’re not talking about that now.”

Gabriel was, as usual, undeterred. “Would that be the Great Plan or the Ineffable Plan?”

They held out a hand. “If we do thiz, we’ll be the onez orchestrating the Ineffable Plan.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I can’t do it for that reason.”

Their outstretched hand curled, the claws wanting purchase. “I’m not the serpent. I’m not going to justify thiz to you. Come up with your own reason. But I want to live.”

Gabriel extended his arm. “That’ll do it.”

But they couldn’t resist one more barb to make up for the Ineffable Plan crack. “So, Handel’z _Messiah_? Do the traitorz actionz make that one ourz or yourz?”

“I’ve heard Uriel try to hit the high notes. It’s definitely yours.”

Hmmph, nice answer. If the traitors’ trick didn’t work, that would give Gabriel the last word. But they’d always been too easy on Gabriel. Up to the very end, apparently.

When their hands made contact, a comforting warmth spread up their arm. It felt nothing like the fire and ice atmospheres of Hell. It was a soft warmth, and ticklish, like feathery down. It felt _good_. The warm feeling spread through their shoulder, down their chest, and they realized it was the atoms of Gabriel’s essence trying to get in. It should’ve felt invasive, but it didn’t. It felt like being tucked in and soothed with a lullaby. It was a good thing Crowley had been thrown out of Hell because a feeling like this would obviously be enough to ruin a lesser demon than Beelzebub themselves. 

They shifted their essence, sending tendrils of their true form into Gabriel’s corporation through their joined hands. They couldn’t tell if it was working. “Am I getting in? What doez it feel like?”

“Like a cello suite,” Gabriel said, and his voice echoed, as if they could hear it through two sets of ears. “Emotional resonance. That can’t be … what does my essence feel like?”

They decided they’d face their complete destruction rather than give voice to the word ‘snuggly.’ “You’re coming through clearly enough. I think it’s working.”

Sure enough, they closed their eyes briefly, and when they opened them, they could see their own corporation staring back at them. At least they looked impressively imposing in uniform, even without their flies. Gabriel released their hand – his own hand? – and they absolutely did not feel bereft at the loss of contact. 

“We have to act like each other, too,” they reminded Gabriel, thinking of Aziraphale’s act as Crowley. Knowing it was the angel who’d asked Michael for a towel made the trial now seem … not funny. What was the word they wanted? Oh, right, enraging.

Gabriel-as-Beelzebub shook his hand out and wiggled his fingers. “I know how to act like you. Don’t worry.” Then he smiled, and on their own face, it was as creepy as they ever could’ve hoped. “You’ll have to be nice to people.”

An angel’s voice came out of their mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m planning on acting like you.” 

Gabriel sighed. “I hope this workz. But if it doesn’t, I just want to say that knowing you haz been one of the most interesting aspectz of my existence.”

Could they blush in Gabriel’s corporation? Angels could throw out compliments so effortlessly. Even the choice of ‘interesting’ had been thoughtfully done. They were probably supposed to say something back, but nothing seemed equal to the occasion.

“I’m trusting you not to get us killed,” they finally said.

“Yeah.” That kind of fond expression had no right to be on their corporation’s face. “Right back at you.”

When they returned to the main floor, the assembled angels and demons scurried back to their seats. It almost looked as if they had been mixing with each other, but they couldn’t be sure. Their entire view of the room was skewed, looking at it from above other people’s heads. It was giving them no small measure of vertigo. Plus Gabriel’s corporation had so much room, it made their essence feel spread out and diffuse. With Gabriel’s insistence that maintaining his corporation was next to godliness, it was like floating in space, but in the finest engineered spacecraft imaginable. 

In any case, they couldn’t take their eyes off Gabriel in their own corporation. Did they really look that arrogantly bored with everyone? Oh, they hoped so. The sneer Gabriel gave Dagon as he approached the holy water befitted an emperor. It was nothing short of glorious.

So, now to act like Gabriel. Since they had last been on the trial floor, a spinning column of hellfire had been produced. Michael monitored it apprehensively. They stepped up to Michael, trying to give her a smile that conveyed his kind pity for her misguidedness. 

“Where are your defense counsel?” Michael asked.

“Either my own actions and words defend me, or I’ll willingly step into the hellfire,” they said, a little startled by Gabriel’s loud, melodious voice carrying their words. The angels leaped up for another standing ovation, this one longer than the last. 

“Never mind the traitorz.” Gabriel leveled a gaze across the audience of demons that gave Beelzebub a chill of fear. “Pronounce your sentence, if you dare.” 

The demons oohed and aahed. Was this how Gabriel thought they acted? Because that was blessed hot.

Dagon nodded once. “As you wish, my Lord. We have found you guilty on all counts.”

They swallowed past a lump in their throat. It had really come to this. The only Armageddon that had ever awaited was their own. But they couldn’t rant and rave as Gabriel, and apparently the real Gabriel thought it beneath Beezlebub’s dignity. 

Michael placed a gentle hand on their forearm, and the ploy at sympathy felt more offensive than Dagon’s stoicism. “I’m sorry, Gabriel, but we have also found you guilty on all counts.”

Even executing Aziraphale, which hadn’t been done as a solo project? But they didn’t argue. Beelzebub argued, not Gabriel. Instead, they patted Michael’s hand. “I understand, and I forgive you.” 

The crowd noise from both sides of the makeshift court rose in volume. The moment of truth was at hand.

Michael appeared close to tears. “It is with a heavy heart that I pronounce sentence on Saint Gabriel Archangel, Messenger of God. Since he has presented no defense for his actions and has not repented of his sins of pride and ambition, he is hereby sentenced to destruction by hellfire.”

Really, ambition, Michael? they thought. But again, Gabriel would never say that. Instead, they squared their shoulders and addressed the crowd directly. “I accept my fate,” they said loudly, “whatever She wills it to be.”

It had been the right thing to say. The angels couldn’t sit still and bounced the bleachers. Most of them looked distinctly unhappy.

They expected Dagon to simply wave towards the bathtub, but they should’ve known better. If Michael got a speech, Dagon wanted one as well. She pounded the floor for attention from the unruly demon crowd. “We pronounce sentence on Lord Beezlebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies, whose time of leadership has come to an end. Their self-serving double dealing finally lost them the confidence of Hell, and they are hereby sentenced to oblivion.” Which was a much better speech than Michael’s, they thought with a touch of pride. They weren’t sure how Gabriel planned to top that.

Gabriel didn’t say a word. He casually walked over the tub of holy water and scooped up a handful. And then he brought his hands to his mouth and drank.

In the anticipatory silence, the only sound was the buzzing of the flies coming down from the ceiling to land on Gabriel’s head and shoulders.

Gabriel smacked his lips – Beezlebub’s lips – and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave Dagon a look of complete and total ennui. “What were you saying,” he drawled, “about oblivion?”

The demons howled, and they saw the apprehension in Dagon’s eyes. “That – we tested that holy water while you were conferring with the traitors,” she sputtered.

“Did you?” Gabriel scooped up another handful and let it spill through his fingers. “Were you also thirsty?”

Hastur stepped onto the floor. “They’re immune to holy water!” he bellowed. The demons continued howling, only now it sounded much less organized.

Dagon and Michael exchanged a significant look. Fear, and Beelzebub knew how to capitalize on fear. They motioned to the spiraling column of hellfire. “Shall I?”

“You – but – what did Aziraphale and Crowley do?” Michael said.

They widened Gabriel’s pretty violet eyes. “Do I step forward, Archangel Michael?”

She swallowed and nodded, looking away from them. They turned and bowed to the bleachers – probably more showy than Gabriel himself would’ve been, but hey, he deserved a moment of triumph – and stepped into the column of fire. It felt like hellfire always did, steamy in a way that loosened the muscles. They allowed themselves to stretch a bit. They hardly ever took the time to relax in one of these columns. Once they got back to Hell, they planned on enjoying the place a whole lot more.

That would, in fact, be the first of many changes.

Uriel, Sandalphon, and the rest of the Archangels crowded the floor. “It’s real hellfire,” Sandalphon announced. The angels roared, and it didn’t sound pleasant.

“Set him free!” someone yelled. 

“Innocent!” someone else cried, and it got picked up as a chant. “Innocent! Innocent! Innocent!”

Poor, stupid angels. Hell definitely would’ve won a Second Celestial War. Frankly, though, angels were so easy to fool that a War was a waste of time. Not to mention the types of leaders that floated to the top in times of crisis. Beings who tried to brute force every problem. No respect for finesse. No, if everyone knew what was good for them, they’d forget about the apocalypse and put Beelzebub back in charge.

Gabriel took another handful of holy water and slurped it down. Dagon and Hastur prostrated themselves at his feet, and the flies landed on their kneeling corporations. “My Lord,” they both said repeatedly, as well they should. 

Beelzebub stepped out the column of hellfire and looked around. Before they could decide what Gabriel would do next, Michael threw her arms around them. 

“Oh, Gabriel,” she said, tears streaming from her eyes. “I’m so glad it worked out this way. Praise be to God!”

“Uh, right, all glory to God,” they said, hoping that wouldn’t succeed in killing them where the hellfire had failed.

“Did you really mean it when you said you forgave me?” she asked.

“Of course,” they said. 

Actually, they swore never to forgive Michael for the entire length of eternity, but they suspected Gabriel had already forgiven her and written today off as the workings of the Ineffable Plan. Just as they’d take Dagon back into their service, and quickly, before someone else tried to snap her up. Fearless disloyalty like hers was worth its weight in gold. In fact, they should write her up for a commendation. That last speech had been impressive. Heaven wouldn’t soon forget it.

The other Archangels surrounded them and embraced them, one by one, and they did their best not to squirm in pain. Ugh, why couldn’t they have left it at the hellfire? They suspected that nobody had embraced Aziraphale / Crowley after that failed execution, but that only made them jealous of the serpent. He’d gotten everything he wanted. But they couldn’t be too jealous. Nobody would miss Aziraphale and Crowley. Obviously, Gabriel and Beelzebub would’ve been very missed.

“And now,” they said, pointing at their eternal counterpart, “let’s talk about the Ineffable Plan.”

“Not today,” Gabriel said. He waved at Dagon dismissively. “Set something up on my schedule. For when it’z convenient.”

They let him have the last word. Unless that counted as letting themselves get the last word? Someone got the last word, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Foolish Heart" by the Grateful Dead. Thanks so much everyone for reading and commenting! Only one chapter left! I'm working on a Good Omens Valentine's Day story now.


	16. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue, with happy endings for all. Are there happy endings in Hell? Does asking that question change the content rating of this fic?

In the end, Gabriel and Beezlebub had to allow the Divine and Occult Combined Governing Board to move forward. It wouldn’t have been Gabriel’s choice, but Michael was so happy to be transparent in her dealings with Hell, it seemed worth it. She was constantly posting newsletters and inviting angels to open committees. Beelz said Dagon was equally happy setting up meetings and drafting agendas. As they said, idle hands were the devil’s playthings, and letting their teams grow idle after the failed apocalypse had been a terrible mistake. Coming up with new rules for angel / demon relations kept everyone nicely occupied. Michael and Dagon had begun a few too many sentences lately with “If Ligur were still here,” but other than that, they disagreed on virtually everything, just as it should be.**

** Gabriel could overlook Michael’s odd nostalgia for Ligur as her point of contact, but if he ever heard anything that sounded remotely like, “if Aziraphale were still here,” he planned to shut the whole thing down. With lightning strikes, if need be.

Of course, allowing the bureaucracy to move forward with a plan was different from having to participate himself. Still, he was the Archangel whom God had granted immunity to hellfire, and everyone paid attention to his approval or disapproval. He had to attend some meetings.**

** Word was that Hell had carried out numerous experiments proving demons were not immune to holy water these days, and the angels seemed content to assume hellfire immunity was equally as rare. At least nobody had volunteered to personally find out.

And so he found himself in the company of demons in the most benighted place in all of God’s creation – London. Dagon had booked a conference room on the ground floor of their skyscraper, and the agenda allowed for a quick break every fourth day. Fortunately, one of the benefits of leadership was that everyone assumed he had very important things to do. When Beelz walked out of another TBC session on the cellular network, Gabriel followed them.**

** Nobody liked to mention his name, but Crowley had done a very thorough job of screwing up much of their technology. Beelz called the meetings about unscrewing their technology TBC sessions, for That Bastard Crowley.

The park had been named for Saint James the Less, who had kept hogs and lepers there, whatever hogs were. Something lepers needed apparently. It was a pretty park with benches and ponds and all sorts of waterfowl. Gabriel had to be careful of his white trouser cuffs as he trailed Beelz to a bench. They sat and gazed over the greenery, their back to the London skyline. Gabriel sat down next to them.

“If they keep talking to each other, they’ll figure it out eventually,” they said. “The trick we pulled.”

“Nah. Everybody doesn’t feel driven to figure things out like we do.”

The flies’ buzzing sounded amused to his practiced ear. “We?”

“Did I ever tell you I asked God for advice while we were trying to pull off our plan for restarting the apocalypse?”

Beelz snorted. “I heard you ask for God’z advice this morning when you were deciding where to sit.”

“I didn’t get an answer this morning,” he said. “Which is how I ended up next to Hastur. Phew.”

Beelz bit their lip, obviously trying not to laugh. “So,” they said, “what was God’z advice? Nothing useful, I’m sure.”

“Be an agent of change.” He’d never told anyone that. 

They nodded. “I waz right. Completely unhelpful.”

“I don’t know. Whenever I think Michael’s taking the spirit of cooperation too far, I remind myself that change isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“It’z not necessarily a good thing, either.”

Unlike angels who shall remain nameless, Gabriel didn’t have the patience for long philosophical arguments with his counterpart. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” he said.

Beelz stuck out their tongue, but he could tell their heart wasn’t in it. For once, the sun was shining in the park, and the warmth of it on his face and shoulders felt pleasant. Maybe not everything in London had been ruined by the traitors.**

**It was getting difficult to figure out what the traitors had betrayed since everyone was now anti-Armageddon and on board with the Ineffable Plan, but the one thing everyone could agree on when the chips were down and the claws were out and the threat of smiting darkened the air was that at least their counterparts weren’t _traitors_.

“I have to tell you something,” Beelz said in a serious tone. “I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

Gabriel’s heart skipped, and he turned it off, wondering why he kept it running in the first place. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

They took a deep breath and faced him directly. “Seventy-two hourz is three Earth dayz.”

It took him a minute to process. “Gah – what – they let us argue about it in front of them. They stood there and – Why would you tell me that? Are you trying to make me Fall?”

“No, no. I just thought you should hear it from me.”

“Hatred is a mortal sin.” Gabriel clenched his molars together and tried to concentrate on the ripples on the pond.

“You’re not going to Fall. You angelz sin all the time.”

He gasped. “We do not.”

“Yez you do. You just call it something else.” Beelz stared out at the pond. “Just like we demonz care about otherz. But we pretend we don’t.”

“Please don’t bring that up at this stupid conference,” he said. “I don’t think anyone’s ready to hear it.”

Gabriel hadn’t been ready to hear it, but like many of Beelzebub’s irritating doubts about the way Creation worked, it had an uncomfortable ring of truth to it. He set it aside to examine later.**

**Being Gabriel, by the time later rolled around, he’d “forgotten” the part about the angels.

“Ugh, this conference is taking forever,” they complained, swinging their legs dangling from the bench. “It wasn’t supposed to make uz wish for Armageddon, waz it?”

“Who knows? I gave up keeping track,” he said, and debated whether to bring something up himself. He miracled his faux calfskin briefcase from the conference room. “I believe the next session is about acceptable gift exchanges.”

They burst out laughing. “Gift exchangez! Angelz giving demonz giftz. That’z almost az ridiculous az demonz giving … I can’t even finish that thought.”

“I might have gotten it wrong.” He opened his briefcase and consulted his color-coded schedule. “Ah, look, this afternoon’s meeting is marked TBA.” **

** That Bastard Aziraphale.

Beelz’s laughing slid into something approaching giggles. Not that Gabriel was crazy enough to point it out. “Who could they even find to make a presentation on – hehehe – gift giving? How do you gift wrap smiting?”

Gabriel reached into his briefcase again, more and more convinced this was a great idea. “Oh, look, I got you something.”

He pulled out a small white box tied with string and held it out. The greedy look on Beelz’s face was priceless, and it took no small amount of willpower to keep his features schooled into bland innocence. Beelz shifted their eyes to take in their surroundings suspiciously before lunging for the gift and yanking off the string. 

“Oooh, macaronz! My favoritez. You remembered.” They immediately shoved a pale pink macaron into their mouth and sighed with pleasure. 

He still found that the concept of putting Earthly gross matter into his corporation filled him with revulsion. “What do you like about those?”

“Sugar,” they said, spitting crumbs and saliva. “And these thingz look like they’ll be satisfying, but they have almost no substance. Like flavored air. A cruel bait and switch I find irresistible.”

“You’re welcome.”

They glared at him, but it lost most of its impact since they were simultaneously dithering over which color macaron to eat next. Gabriel snorted. “You didn’t find anything good or wholesome about that exchange we just had?”

“No. Shut up.” They licked some cream filling from the corner of their mouth. “And if you tell anyone the traitorz got me hooked on these thingz—”

He waved the unspoken threat away. “I think we’re both better off never speaking of them again. As if I didn’t have enough to do with Michael’s demands, I had to set up the corporeal department to keep a few extras on hand for Aziraphale so nobody has to listen to him if he shows up discorporated.”

They nodded. “That’z a good idea. I know if Crowley darez to put one scale in Hell, I’ll personally make sure he getz booted out before he can make a sound.”

“Aziraphale closed the bookshop. I think they both left London.”

“Excellent. Savez me the trouble of burning the shop down.”

The traitors used to disappear periodically as Earth agents. They’d always explained it as needing to lay low before people figured out that they weren’t aging and were immortal. But who knew what Aziraphale had been truthful about anymore? The important thing, the actually very wonderful thing, was that if any lower level angels or demons got curious, the traitors couldn’t be found.

Gabriel felt the sunlight on his skin, and it was good. But also temporary. “What happens to them when the humans destroy themselves? You know humans, they will, sooner or later.”

“I hear Alpha Centauri iz nice.” They smiled and shrugged with just one shoulder, side-eyeing him, nose crinkling. It was … different. It was dangerously close to cute.

“I’ve never seen you do that before,” he said slowly. 

The smile widened. “It’z a thing I do.”

“Alpha Centauri, huh?” A strange idea was swirling through his head. “Is it … humid there, do you think?”

“Ugggghh.” Gabriel had never heard such a heartfelt moan. “That’z the thing about Hell that getz to you after a while. It’z not the heat, it’z the humidity.”

“I’ve heard that.” **

** The more accurate version Gabriel had heard was “It’s not the heat, it’s the endless stinking torment and the goddamn wasps.”

“I’ve been working way, way too hard lately,” they confided. “I’ve got about three decadez of vacation time accrued.”

“I’m beginning to rethink something,” he said carefully, weighing each word. “The whole ‘we don’t go on holidays’ thing. Is that carved in stone?”

Beelz quickly averted their eyes, staring out at the swimming birds, whatever they were called. Just when Gabriel decided to rescind his question, they said, “I hear Australia is dry. A big desert filled with venomouz animalz. I alwayz wanted to see it.”

“Australia could be educational,” he said. Very, very cautiously, without smiling at all. 

Briefly, he wondered if this was how problems had started for Aziraphale and Crowley. If maybe one day, they’d come back from interminable meetings with their celestial cohorts who didn’t understand what they’d been through and talked to each other about doing something fun. 

But that was ridiculous. He and Beelzebub were nothing like Aziraphale and Crowley and never would be. What was the appropriate human saying?

Ah, right. No worries.

MEANWHILE …

The South Downs was perhaps the most beautiful place Aziraphale had ever seen. There was no place in Great Britain where the water was quite so blue. It made a gorgeous contrast with the white cliffs on the beach and the myriad greens of the landscape. The 19th century flint cottage was isolated but had a paved access road that would keep sand and dirt off the Bentley. There were skylights in the kitchen, a fireplace in the lounge, and a garden patio that seemed to capture the sunlight. He took a deep breath and let the salty air fill his chest.

As he inspected each room, Crowley circled him, watching his face closely. Finally, after examining everything inside and out, they came to a rest in front of the unlit fireplace.

“You don’t have to close the bookshop,” Crowley said.

“It’s time for a reset,” he answered. “You know I was long overdue. I’ll go back in a year or two as my nephew.”

“You always let that go too long.” 

Crowley enjoyed disappearing and reappearing in London as his own bastard son, and had once jumped the gun and declared himself his own illegitimate grandson just to see if he could get away with it. Humans had stopped finding it scandalous, though, and Aziraphale knew that took the fun out of reappearing. He wasn’t sure how quickly he wanted to reappear himself. A year or two seemed like it could go by awfully fast. It was barely enough time to make inroads in his “To Be Read” pile.

A sudden inspiration occurred. “Maybe that nice boy Newt will want to mind the shop for me.”

He could sense the surprised look behind the glasses. “The nice boy who burns books? Uh-uh.”

“Hmm. I suppose he won’t want to leave Jasmine Cottage in any case. How far away are we?”

“I can get us to Tadfield in five minutes. Ten, tops.” Which wasn’t exactly an answer to the question, but it would do.

“And nobody can reach us here? We won’t be listed on the intraworld network?”

“The … never mind. No, nobody can find us here. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Then it’s perfect.” He rubbed his hands together, anticipating moving an armchair so he could read in the patch of sunlight streaming through the nearby window. 

Crowley rang up the realtor, and when Aziraphale heard him say they’d take the cottage indefinitely, a frisson of excitement rippled through him. Privacy. Peace and quiet. Days on the beach or in the garden, nights drinking wine and stargazing. 

When Crowley disconnected the call, Aziraphale took his hand. “Thank you so much for doing this. You’re so good to me.”

“It’s not just for you, angel. I want to be here.” Crowley’s smile was so soft and vulnerable, Aziraphale wanted to cuddle him in quilts and stop everything sharp from touching him. He coaxed the phone out of Crowley’s hand and put it on the mantle so he could take his other hand and bring it to his lips.

Crowley turned red, but he stood his ground. He was doing so much better with accepting affection, and Aziraphale had plans to expose him to a lot more of it.

“Hey,” Crowley said, “I love you.”

“Oh, I know, dear.” He kissed Crowley’s other hand. “How could I not?”

AND JUST A LITTLE BIT LATER ...

Prince Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, had been awarded a commendation by Satan himself. It was the only communication Satan relayed on the whole affair. One day, the box with the medal had shown up on their desk. They pinned it next to their war medals as they recalled scoffing at the vagueness of Gabriel’s message from God. What was this medal for, really? What part of the job had they done well? Because when they thought about it, the whole thing from the Satanic nuns on had been a major cock-up. Just in case they were right, they had special commendations made for Dagon and Hastur. It was best demonic practices to spread the blame to all of one’s subordinate team.**

** Crowley who?

After that, gifts started to roll in. Fortunately, none of these gifts were from angels and could be better classified as tribute. Demons from every rank wanted to be in Lord Beelzebub’s good graces. Hardly a day went by where Dagon couldn’t be seen chewing on an endangered species of seaweed she’d been given. And although it didn’t completely lift what Beelzebub had to acknowledge was his grief, Hastur had a whole new set of eyeballs for bouncing against the walls. 

Mammon, the covetous bastard, had tried to bribe them for the secret to surviving holy water. They’d never give away the secret, but they enjoyed listening to Mammon’s offers. It made them realize there was nothing they could think of that they wanted that they didn’t already have. Until the gift with the silver wrapping paper showed up.

The box was about the size of small chainsaw, or perhaps a large electric bone saw. The wrapping job was extremely amateur, like something a child might do with no supervision. The silver paper had a star design, only the stars were blue and purple and had five points instead of being hydrogen-based nuclear reactors. There was no card. It was not a thing of Hell. It was not a thing of Heaven. They called Dagon and Hastur into their office before they opened it, just in case they had to spread the blame again.

The three of them gathered around their desk apprehensively. They considered setting the box on fire, but one didn’t get to be a Prince of Hell by taking the easy route. They ripped off the paper and used a talon to slit open the cardboard box.

A greenish lizard with a long, curling tail hopped out.

“Ligur?” Hastur’s voice was shaky and awed. He poked the lizard, and it snapped at his finger with vicious teeth.

“Where did this come from?” Dagon asked.

The lizard jumped off the desk. In a flash of dark, Ligur appeared. He rocked his head to the side, cracking his neck as if he’d been confined somewhere very small for a long period of time. 

And Beelzebub finally realized something that they’d never considered, not even once. They were proud they’d Fallen because they had to keep poking at the underpinnings of Creation. But, to their surprise, there were things they just did not want to know. Some strings weren’t meant to be pulled on too hard.

“So,” Ligur asked, “what did I miss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This was quite a lot of fun to write. It inspired me to write and post a GO Christmas story and I'm working on a Valentine's Day story now, and hopefully more to come in the future with the Ineffable Bureaucracy since writing as Gabriel and Beelzebub is such a trip. I love this community, and thank you to all of you for the many hours of reading, writing, commenting, and enjoying!


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